


if there was one thing i could save from the fire

by amsterdamned (Icewolf51), penchant



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Homophobic Society, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 19:11:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 54,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icewolf51/pseuds/amsterdamned, https://archiveofourown.org/users/penchant/pseuds/penchant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reaping Day is the best day of Arthur’s entire goddamned life.<br/>Or, the Hunger Games Inception crossover that everybody asked for but never expected they'd actually get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if there was one thing i could save from the fire

**Author's Note:**

> This took a REALLY long time. Really. A really long time. Just over a year. It really shouldn't have taken this long, honestly. Regardless, it's here after months and months of taking breaks and getting really distracted. Title and epigraph are both by Richard Siken. We don't own The Hunger Games or Inception (unfortunately). This contains some major plot points that may be triggering to some people, so please, check the end notes to make sure you're not going to be getting into something that you can't handle (No sexual violence, no non-con or dub-con, and no mental illness). There are some very minor flashbacks to domestic abuse.

 

All night I stretched my arms across  
him, rivers of blood, the dark woods, singing  
with all my skin and bone _Please keep him safe._  
 _Let him lay his head on my chest and we will be_  
 _like sailors, swimming in the sound of it, dashed_  
 _to pieces._ Makes a cathedral, him pressing against  
me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe  
his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars.  
~Richard Siken, _Saying Your Names_

 

Reaping Day is the best day of Arthur’s entire goddamned life. Of course, the day when the Academy Headmaster told him that he would be the Tribute for the 25th Annual Hunger Games is a close second, but nothing can compare to hearing the District 2 escort say, “Thorwood Dunbryll,” knowing that it was his given right to stand up straight and say, “I volunteer as Tribute.”

The crowd parts as Arthur walks up to the stage, a few of his acquaintances nodding in his direction. He walks up the steps and has to stop himself from grinning, because he needs to look intimidating, he is intimidating, but this truly is the best day of his life and occurrences like that tend to make people feel like grinning.

The escort, Zenobia Duncain, manages to get some applause out of the more jealous Academy students before handing Arthur the microphone.

“And you are?” she asks, even though there’s obviously no need to, because for a week now the announcement had been official.

“Arthur Adjoy,” he says, more confidently than he’s ever said anything.

Zenobia pauses for a second, considering, and then says, “Now, you wouldn’t happen to have any relation to Savera Adjoy, the District 2 Tribute from six years ago?”

Arthur’s jaw clenches. He knew that they were going to ask him this at some point, of course, and it’ll probably come up again in the interviews if he’s unlucky enough, but he can’t help the way his body goes all tense the second he hears her name. “Yes,” he says through clenched teeth. “Savera was my sister.”

Zenobia, not noticing any discomfort, says, “Well, I’m sure you’ll do your sister’s memory proud.” Arthur politely refrains from punching her in the face.

There had been a lot of controversy surrounding the Academy’s choice as him for Tribute, given that very fact: Savera was nothing but a memory, having been killed in the Games six years ago - but not only that, she had been killed within the first two days. It was a shameful thing to carry around in an Academy district, but Arthur had learned to carry the weight of her failure around with him for six years now, and he was sick of it. He had almost felt like crying from joy when the Academy told him that, despite whatever doubts they may have regarding Savera’s lack of success they truly believed that Arthur was the best student to be this year’s Tribute.

Zenobia calls the ceremony to an end, managing to squeeze a last round of applause out of the crowd before the Peacekeepers come to escort Arthur and the female Tribute to the rooms where they’ll have a chance to say good-bye to any family or friends. Arthur has time enough to think one thing before he’s ushered away from the crowd: Reaping Day might be the best day of his life so far, but winning the Games will be so much better.

======

Almost the complete opposite holds true for Eames, because Reaping Day is not only the day when he gets chosen to compete in the games that he’s dreaded for all his life - no, that’s not it. It’s the worst day because when he runs from the town hall in a blind and completely idiotic attempt to escape his fate, the Peacekeepers grab his little half sister and use her as an example, a screaming scapegoat. Eames has never regretted anything more in his entire life.

He is grabbed and thrown on stage and Greir Ballantynn, his escort, looks at him cautiously, as if he’s going to take her and strangle her. He’s seriously thinking about it and probably would if it wasn’t for the newly installed electric cuffs that keep his fists locked behind his back.

“So, it’s Eames Duri?” she asks, and Eames tries to keep his face expressionless, but on the inside, he feels like dying.

“Yes,” he whispers into the microphone, and doesn’t say anything else for a long time.

He knows he’s going to regret all this, especially when it comes to getting sponsors, he’ll have you know. After they’ve seen this footage... he’ll be dead in days.

\--

Eames’s cuffs are taken off once he’s in a small, dank, waiting room like area. He sits there in a single chair and waits for almost an hour for anyone to open the doors and say goodbye, although, realistically, he knows this isn’t going to happen, not now with his sister in a pile of limbs splayed out for all of District 3 to see. He can’t even imagine it, flinching at the horrendous thought.

He sits and thinks about his impending doom for quite a while before they come to usher him away. And after another hour on the train, he realizes that he has nothing left to fight for, nobody left to fight for, and he’s fine with that. He’s fine with dying now, knowing that there will be no little Silver Duri starving in the streets of District 3 with nobody to help her.

He decides to have fun with this. He grins.

======

The only people who come to see Arthur while he’s waiting are his parents, but that’s to be expected - basically anyone he previously considered a friend is too jealous to even consider sending him off, and his friend Dom hasn’t spoken to him since Arthur said he agreed with the Academy’s decision to have Mal, his girlfriend, as their female tribute last year. She had come in second place, and Dom still hasn’t gotten over her death.

Arthur can’t imagine loving someone so much their death still leaves you depressed a year later. Hell, Arthur can’t imagine loving anyone at all.

His parents have never been the affectionate kind, of course, and since Savera’s death, the only thing they had done was put more and more pressure on Arthur to train as hard as he possibly could, so maybe he could right the Adjoy name again. Not that Arthur minded too much -- it really had pushed him to train harder and that’s why he’s here today. His mother has been doting over him ever since the official announcement, and today she even goes so far as to hug him. Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever been hugged in his entire life before that moment, and based on this one experience, he’s not sure it’s something he wants to repeat.

“We are so proud of you,” his mom says, and Arthur’s beaming -- because his parents are proud of him, because this is the best day of his life, because he is going to win the 25th Hunger Games and it will finally set their name right.

As soon as his parents leave, he reviews some strategy in his mind before the Peacekeepers come and escort him to the train. Once there, he makes polite conversation with his fellow tribute, Saffra, because of course it’s expected that he’ll align himself with both her and the tributes from District 1. They have two mentors, Delphi (who won two years ago) and Whytt (who won five years ago). Arthur immediately takes to Whytt, and, remembering watching him when Arthur was twelve, realizes that they have a very similar take on the Games.

The Capitol comes into view before an hour is up, and even though Arthur’s been here before for school trips, it still takes his breath away. As he takes it in, it really hits him that he’s actually going to be this year’s tribute - it’s really him, it’s not anyone else, he’s going to be the one in the arena and then the Victor’s seat.

They approach the platform with all the smiling Capitol citizens, and, although Arthur’s face is schooled into a careful scowl, it’s the happiest he’s been in years.

======

On the train, Eames relaxes. He puts up his feet on the seat opposite him while his district partner, Emira, shakes horrendously. When Greir walks in, she walks in alone.

Eames picks up a toothpick from the bar cart next to him and sticks it between his teeth. He spins it and watches Greir as she glances into a mirror. She’s the most normal looking Capitol citizen Eames has ever seen with her blonde, pin-straight hair and heavy shadow like make-up rimming her eyes.

She looks into the mirror at the entrance to the car for a long moment, her eyes darting around suspiciously. Eames stares at her for a moment, looking away unsubtly when she turns around.

She sits down in the chair opposite Emira and looks straight into her tear-filled eyes. “I’m going to try my best to ensure that you survive,” she says softly. She puts her hand on Emira’s shoulder and looks toward Eames with the same softness. “You too, hon. I promise. We know both of you can’t win, but I will try to help in any way I can.”

Eames squints at her and sits up properly, taking the toothpick out of his mouth to twirl around his fingers. “Where’s our mentor?” he asks.

She smiles wistfully. “That’s me.”

Eames is thoroughly confused. “Excuse me?” he says, leaning forward slightly. “I thought you were our escort.”

She nods. “I am. It’s quite a long story, but I was a part of District 3 once, too.”

Eames shakes his head, but before he can say anything, she speaks again.

“I was in the Games when I was sixteen, and I was highly popular with many sponsors. They loved me. I’m not sure if you know this, but part of your sponsor’s money is included in your winnings. If you have more sponsors, you have more money. I had an incredible amount of money when I won, enough to leave behind this nothing district and buy my way into the Capitol. Part of this deal was that I have to escort the District 3 tributes every year that I live there, as well as be your mentor.”

Eames takes a breath. “So you know what we’re going through, then.”

Greir nods. “I’ve been through all this before. I’m honestly just here to help.” She turns to Emira again. “Are you alright, hon?”

Emira shakes her head, and Eames gets up and walks across the car. “I’ll be at the breakfast bar if anyone needs me,” he says, and the door slides shut behind him.

=====

Arthur never thought he’d have reason to despise sequins, but at this moment, he can’t think of anything he hates more.

His stylist, an overenthusiastic and chubby guy names Spens, has been doting on Arthur ever since he came through the door four hours ago. Which would’ve been fine if it wasn’t all leading up to the sequined atrocity Spens was currently holding up for Arthur to see.

“Are the sequins really necessary?” Arthur asks. He hates to sound petulant, but really - a jumpsuit covered in sequins would make anyone angry. Especially when this is the first outfit any possible sponsors will see him wearing.

Spens just smiles at Arthur. “Of course they are! Both Saffra’s stylist and I have given this outfit a lot of thought, and the sequins are absolutely, 100% necessary.”

“But why so many?” Arthur persists, not giving up that easily.

Spens lays the outfit down over a chair. He turns toward Arthur, and Arthur is surprised by the intelligence he sees in Spens’ eyes.

“Arthur, tell me: your district’s industry is masonry, yes?” Spens says. Arthur nods.

“Well, the very definition of masonry is the combining of small units to create one larger one. These sequins are lined up precisely so they can do just that. Trust me when I say that only you, me and Saffra will even be able to tell that you’re wearing sequins. To everyone else, it will just look like a mosaic. Like little pieces coming together to form a big picture.”

“And what picture is that exactly?” Arthur asks, not quite willing to give up his skepticism just yet.

Spens looks at Arthur like he’s being an unnecessary pain in the ass, which, to be fair, he probably is. “Stand right next to Saffra during the entrance, and you’ll see,” Spens answers, completely dodging the question.

“I’m still not convinced the sequins are necessary,” Arthur grumbles, because he hates to lose.

“Just be glad I don’t have you wearing spangles,” Spens says lightly. “Get into your outfit, and I’ll meet you at the hair and makeup station.” He steps outside and closes the door behind him, leaving Arthur to get into his sequined outfit.

And even though Arthur knows his every waking moment from this point on should be consumed with strategy, as he slips on his outfit he can’t help wondering what spangles are, and how they could possibly be worse than sequins.

======

The three of them ride in the train for about two hours, and when they arrive at the Capitol, they are swamped by people. Greir is shielding Emira with her body, and several people attempt to follow them in when they are ushered into the stylist’s building.

Eames is terrified as he waits for his turn, sitting in a chair that’s facing the window. People are throwing themselves to try and get a view of him and presumably the other tributes in separate rooms.

When he’s called not long after, he’s shaved and waxed all over and he gets a haircut to go with it. He’s put into a room with a single mirror and no windows, and stares at himself for a long time. His hair is so short now, still wet and sticking up in different places. He has to admit he looks good, because he was nervous about getting it cut by people whose hair looks the way it does in the Capitol, but as he toys with it, he finds he enjoys it the more he looks at it.

Eventually, his stylist walks in. She’s almost the exact opposite of Greir, dark haired with streaks of pink and blue, pulled high and styled around her extravagantly made-up face.

“Eames,” she says, her voice lilting and soft, and Eames finds that he kind of likes her a bit. “I’m Tessa.”

He nods. “Well, you know my name.”

She smiles a bit. “Are you ready?” she asks, and Eames shrugs.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“That’s exactly what I was hoping to hear.”

======

Arthur and Saffra meet up in their chariot ten minutes to entrance time.

Saffra’s blonde hair is done up in a twist above her head, and her eyes are highlighted by winged eyeliner and grey eyeshadow, both done dramatically. Arthur hasn’t yet looked into a mirror, but he had been told that he would have the exact same makeup as Saffra, and he can’t help but think that it probably looks a lot better on a girl.

“Hey,” Saffra says as soon as Arthur steps up. “Did your stylist tell you why we had to stand next to each other?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure we should listen to them,” he replies.

“Should we do it now?” Saffra asks, and in that moment, Arthur is pretty sure that Saffra’s not any competition. Then again, she could just be playing at being dumb.

“Of course not,” he snaps. “We wait until we’re in the arena and then hopefully surprise everyone.”

Saffra seems a little put off by his gruffness, but she better get used to it.

Still, as soon as the doors open and the District 1 chariot starts being pulled through the city gates, she molds her face into a smile and starts waving. Arthur goes with his usual glower, but, once they’ve been in the arena for around five seconds, he nods at Saffra. The two of them line themselves up just so, and Arthur can almost feel it.

Magnets, he thinks dazedly. The sequins are tiny magnets.

The sequins on the edge of his jumpsuit are slowly attracting themselves to the ones on the edge of Saffra’s, even the ones that are farther away. He looks up at the screen to see what the magnets are spelling out and almost has to roll his eyes at how simple a message it is - all it says is “DISTRICT 2.” But, he supposes, it’s not like the people in the Capitol would be appreciative of anything more complex than that.

Arthur’s just getting used to his glare being broadcast all over the Capitol when suddenly - it’s not. He hears Magnus Vipointe say, “And look at District 3!”

Arthur doesn’t need to turn around to see the spectacle. The tributes from District 3 are wearing pitch black full body jumpsuits that are literally pulsing with electricity. No makeup, no accessories, no anything - just a jumpsuit that seemed like it could electrocute anything it touched.

Of course, the lack of anything beside the jumpsuit left Arthur with an unobstructed view of both tributes. The girl (Emira, Arthur recalls) looks too fragile to really pull off the energy needed to contrast the suit, but the boy - oh, the boy seems to be having no problem at all. He seems to be eating it up.

Arthur remembers him. He remembers how he tried to run away when his name was called, how the Peacemakers had killed his sister to punish him. How quiet and delicate he had seemed. Arthur had assumed that he wouldn’t be any competition at all. But the way he looks now... well, if Arthur hadn’t seen the footage, he wouldn’t guess that this boy’s sister had been killed yesterday. He wouldn’t guess any of that.

He looks better happy, Arthur thinks, and then scowls at himself for thinking it. He’ll look better dead, he amends. But the cameras stay on him until all of the chariots are inside the arena and waiting for President Colt to speak, and Arthur just knows how much the sponsors must be eating it up.

And if he’s being honest with himself, Arthur’s eating it up, too - later that night, he can’t get the image of the confident, smiling boy from District 3 out of his head, and it bothers him that he can’t even remember his name.

======

In all of Eames’s lifetime, he has never been so nervous.

He’d been nervous at all the reapings, and he’d been nervous when they waxed him (scared and scarred, more accurately), but he’s never felt this stone in the pit of his stomach, never wanted to vomit off the side of his beautifully ornate chariot (not that he’s ever been in one before).

He stands with Emira in front of a crowd of what must be tens of thousands of people, and even more watching at home, and she’s shaking violently. He wishes he could hold her hand, but he knows what will happen if these gloves touch hers, and they can’t quite give themselves away so quickly.

They’re about halfway through the stadium when he hears Tessa’s signal in his earpiece. He looks at Emira, then back at the crowd, and sees them looking at the pair of them curiously, wondering if that’s really all they’ve got.

He almost dares them to guess.

He grabs Emira’s hand suddenly and raises it in the air. He can’t see it, but he can feel electricity pulsing through him, flowing back and forth from his body to the tiny girl’s standing beside him, and the adrenaline starts pumping. He wants to jump up and down, sing (despite his horrific singing voice), pick her up and raise her above his shoulders, but he can hear both Greir and Tessa’s voices in his head telling him to stay calm and collected.

Despite their imaginary voices, he grins hard and wide, and he sees Emira mimicking him from the corner of his eye.

The electricity grows around them, and he can see it then, twirling and making wonderful patterns around him. If this is what District 3 was actually like, perhaps he would have enjoyed living there while he still could.

They reach the center and disperse to their positions. They stand there, still flowing and bright, and while he can hear the President’s speech, he doesn’t listen.

It’s a wonderful feeling.

The chariots are eventually brought out into the chamber for tributes, designers and escorts, and he grins at Tessa.

“That was fantastic!” he says excitedly as he jumps out, helping Emira come down with him. She doesn’t say anything, but she’s smiling, which Eames so rarely sees, so he’s glad to take it.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Tessa says, and smirks. “I guess that’s what I’m here for.”

Tessa’s partner is talking to Emira, kneeling down beside her, and Eames can’t help but be thankful that his team is the best he could have asked for.

Greir pats Eames on the back and hugs Emira and then they’re changing out of their costumes and being brought back to their rooms.

They eat a plentiful dinner, and for once, Eames actually feels good about the days to come.

======

The next morning, Arthur wakes up early, buzzing with anticipation for the first day of training. Training days are almost better than actually being in the arena, because, even though you can’t actually kill anyone yet, it’s a time to show off and let the other tributes know just how you’ll kill them when the time comes.

Arthur, with his lean body, loves it when people underestimate him. It makes them that much more fun to fight.

Saffra seems to be in a similar mood, and they both eat heartily before heading toward the training center.

When they get there, Atala, the lead trainer, explains to them the basic rules of the training center: two days leading into the evaluation, and based on the Gamemaker’s impressions of them, they will be scored on a scale of 1 - 12. They are not to kill or maim or even slightly injure anyone during these two days, which actually makes the girl from District 1 visibly upset. Arthur makes a note not to trust her, even if they do become aligned. After listening to this woman list rules for what seems like ages, she finally leaves them be.

Saffra and Arthur immediately approach the District 1 tributes.

“Pathetic,” the girl says. “Is that really the best they could come up with this year?”

“Well, think of it this way: they’ll be that much easier to kill,” the guy says, and Arthur and Saffra laugh along.

“Still,” the girl insists. “I would like a bit of a challenge.”

“I second that,” Arthur adds, rolling his eyes as he watches the male tribute from District 10, who is currently struggling with a sword. “It’s almost an insult.”

The girl cants a smile toward Arthur. “I’m Tulle, and that’s Damask,” she says, reaching out a hand.

“Arthur,” Arthur tells her, shaking her hand.

“And I’m Saffra,” Saffra says, reaching out her own hand.

Tulle takes it, and then looks at the three of them with a menacing smile. “So, you want to show these lameass excuses for tributes how it’s really done?”

“Definitely,” Saffra says, a similar smile lighting up her face.

They start at the knives, because knives can be scarier than any other weapon if used correctly. They’re not Arthur’s strong point, but he still went through years of training and definitely knows how to handle one definitely better than most people in the room.

Tulle steps up first, and takes three knives in hand. She swings her hand, and all three hit the dummy in a perfectly straight line across the pecs. The training center practically goes silent as Arthur steps up. He only takes one, a shorter one with a curved handle, and backs up a few paces. He takes a running start and throws the knife straight between the center dummy’s eyes, then quickly takes another one out of the rack. He sprints straight up to dummy and stabs the second knife straight into the place where its heart would be, carefully removing the first knife from between the eyes while he does so and plunging it into a dummy to his right. All of this takes no more than seven seconds.

He feels full of adrenaline as he removes the knives and backs up, tucking the knives back onto the shelf they came from. He and Tulle high five as Damask goes up to show an equally terrifying strategy. By now, the entire gym is watching them.

Good, Arthur thinks. Let them know what they’re up against.

Once Saffra’s had her chance, they step back and decide to survey the other tributes more closely.

Arthur’s not surprised to note that the girl from District 4 looks like she could be something to contend with - District 4 is practically an Academy district, even if most of the training is unofficial. But it’s nothing they can’t handle.

There are few other tributes who seem like they could maybe pose a problem - the boy from District 6 is the fastest runner Arthur has ever seen, and the girl from 9 can effortlessly swing from obstacle to obstacle in the mock arena area. It’s obvious that the girl from 9 has to be killed at Cornucopia, lest she follow them around silently in the trees, a point on which all four of them agree. Arthur’s still puzzling over what to do about the boy from 6 when something he sees in the corner of his eyes catches his attention.

The other three are currently mocking the boy from 7 as he misses the target arrow after arrow, but Arthur turns toward whatever caught his eye. He wishes he could be surprised that it’s the boy from District 3, the one with the dead sister.

He’s by the rack of weights, clearly about to throw one. Arthur should tell the other three to look, he should, because, well - look at those fucking muscles. Arthur hadn’t known factory work could be so beneficial in that respect. He doesn’t know how they managed to pass over the boy in their initial evaluation of the gym.

The boy picks up a 75 pound weight, no problem, and hefts it up. The line of his back is taut in concentration, and Arthur keeps staring at him, curious as to what’s going to happen next.

And then, right before he throws the weight, he turns around and - and winks at Arthur, what the fucking fuck. The weight falls a good fifteen feet from the boy’s feet, which, according to his professors at the Academy, is only just below average. He never would’ve been chosen to represent an Academy district, but still, that’s better than a lot of the people who are currently in this room. Arthur stares at the weight lying on the floor, and promises himself that he will be the one to kill the boy from District 3, no matter what.

======

After the first day in training, Eames feels like he’s about to collapse. He looks strong, acts strong, but has never had any real experience before. He rerouted electrical wires and climbed up trees to get to the tops of buildings, but he’s never had to fight before, especially not for his life.

His arms ache as he forks some chicken into his mouth, and Greir keeps looking at him worriedly.

Emira looks significantly better than she did the day before, with color in her cheeks and a slight smile on her face. Eames barely saw her the entire day without looking, finding her in the rafters, whittling with a knife to make a spear. She’s quite smart, even if she doesn’t look it, and although it might come back to bite him in the ass, he decides to stick with her.

He eats quickly and heads off to bed, wrapping himself in his covers and staring at the screen that displays whatever he wishes. He goes for the ocean, the waves crashing over his imaginary shore, and wonders what will happen if he dies-- or worse, wins.

He’ll have to go back to his district with no family, a big house, and the resentment of all the people he’s ever known. His whole life has been dedicated to working, so he never had many friends, and he never had much to do except look after his sister. What would he do?

Would anyone even miss him if he died?

He falls asleep with worry clouding his dreams.

\--

The next morning, he dresses in a sleek black jumpsuit and eats quickly, eager to get back to training. He feels reinvigorated, more excited than yesterday, and starts off with knife throwing. He misses the dummy on first four, but the next one he throws hits the shoulder and he beams to himself. He keeps going and eventually, after many knives, gets one directly on the bullseye.

He can feel people staring, but he ignores them and continues throwing. He devises his own techniques and is so proud of himself when he can throw five in a row and hit the bullseye on each body part.

He moves onto the sliding targets, moving back, forth, left, and right, and eventually gets a strategy for those as well. He starts to back up to improve his long distance shot and slams straight into another tribute.

Of course, Eames has seen him before, but he’s never taken much notice of anyone except himself and Emira. He’s from District 2, he knows that, but he doesn’t know much else.

The boy is startled at first, the spear that he was working with clattering to the ground, but then his expression morphs into one of anger.

“What is wrong with you?” he nearly growls, and advances toward Eames, obviously trying to be intimidating.

The boy looks strong, though lean, but Eames hardly cares, because he still has a knife in each hand and his muscles are bigger and he just knows it’s a fight he would win.

“Sorry, kid,” he says, because the boy is at least a year younger than him, and he feels it’s his entitled right.

“What did you just call me?” the boy asks, apparently not on the same train of thought as Eames.

“Kid. Would you prefer ‘pet?’” he says, trying his best to sound snide instead of amused.

“I would prefer Arthur,” Arthur says, his nose flaring angrily. “Since that’s my name.”

Eames switches the blade in his right hand to his left, and forcibly shakes Arthur’s hand. “I’m Eames,” he says, grinning. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I happen to be getting quite good at this knife throwing thing, and if it helps me kill you later, then why stop?” He turns away then, and really, truly hopes that the end of Arthur’s spear is not in his stomach within the next few seconds.

Fortunately for him, it is not, and instead, he can hear Arthur audibly huffing and turning back to his spear throwing.

Eames intends to keep Arthur in mind, for later.

======

Kid. That stupid, good for nothing, District 3 tribute had the nerve to call him kid.

Angry doesn’t even begin to describe how Arthur feels right now.

No one’s called him kid since -- well, since Savera died. It makes something pull in his chest, a dull ache that’s been there since she died six years ago. He tries to will it away and focus on his spear throwing, but leave it to the thought of Savera to open up a fucking dam in his mind.

Arthur wouldn’t really describe what he felt for his sister as love -- no one in his family loved each other, not really. But he and Savera always had a kind of camaraderie, so to speak, even though there was a five year age difference between them -- it was the kind of thing that came from going through the same intense Academy curriculum and having someone who understood exactly what was happening, or why, exactly, it was so important that you win a fight against a certain person or make a good impression on a certain professor. Their parents got it, in a distant sort of sense, but not in the intimate way Savera and Arthur understood each other.

Of course, then Savera had had to go and die, and everything went wrong. Absently, Arthur realizes that he’s the same age as Savera was when she died. It startles him that he hadn’t noticed before then.

Arthur puts down his spear, dismayed to find that his hands are shaking - but then again, memories of Savera always have this kind of effect on him. He doesn’t think of her often, or tries not to, at least - unless it’s a distant disappointment in her failure - but whenever he does, it always hurts just as much as the moment he saw her stabbed through the chest by a tribute from District 4.

Arthur shakes himself out of it and heads over to where Damask is standing over a computer screen, learning to identify plants which are poisonous versus which are edible.

He says, “Hey, mind if I join in?”

Damask shakes his head. “Not at all,” he says, indicating the other side of the table, which is set up for a second person.

Arthur nods in thanks, and opens up the program. He already did this yesterday, so it’s almost mindless as he’s shown two similar plants and identifies the one which is poisonous. Of course, this lets his mind wander a bit. Since he doesn’t want to think about Savera, this means his thoughts flip back to Eames.

The only good part of the entire encounter is that Arthur knows that Eames is convinced he could take Arthur in a fight -- he had given Arthur a quick once over, and that’s when the smugness had entered his eyes. This, Arthur supposes, gives him an advantage - the last thing that Eames will ever feel is surprise as Arthur kills him, hopefully in the most painful way he can think of.

That evening, they’re all called in for their private training sessions.

Saffra wishes Tulle and Damask luck as they walk toward the training center, and she and Arthur spend a few minutes shooting the shit about random things as they both review their strategy for the next couple of minutes in their head.

Because, you see - Arthur’s taking a risk. Of course, he’s going to start off his time with some knife skills and do a few spear and javelin throws, but his main thing is going to be knots.

Arthur’s always been incredible at tying knots - he has nimble fingers that work deftly with rope, and he possesses the precision necessary to make the knots perfect. And he knows that knot tying isn’t deadly in and of itself - but a collection of knots can form a trap, making someone that much easier to kill.

And Arthur has absolutely no qualms about forcing a slipknot around someone’s throat if it means their death will bring him that much closer to winning.

He hears Atala call for the male tribute from District 2, and gets up.

“Good luck!” Saffra calls to him, and Arthur says, “Yeah,” as he walks toward the doors.

He pushes them open, and is almost underwhelmed with how empty the space feels. He looks straight up at the council of Gamemakers and says, “Arthur Adjoy, District 2.”

The Head Gamemaker nods at him to begin, and so he does. He starts with the same knife routine he did on the first day of training, throws a javelin completely on target so that it goes through three dummies, and then heads over to the corner of the training center where they keep the snares and rope traps. He picks up a length of rope around thirty feet long, as well as various smaller ones, and gets down to work.

Within two minutes, he’s created an inescapable web of swiftly and precisely tied knots, which are attached to the set of monkey bars, the weight rack, a support column on the side of the gym, and, because Arthur has a flair for the dramatic, a dummy’s neck.

He looks up at the Gamemakers, who look back at him. “Thank you,” the Head Gamemaker says, and Arthur nods, undoing his trap before walking out the other door.

He can’t help the smile the bursts onto his face as he jogs back to his room. These Games are so on.

=======

Eames's presentation doesn't go quite as well as he would have liked. He stands in front of the Gamemakers until they nod for him to continue, and he grabs three knives and them. They all hit the target, but they're not on the bullseye, and therefore not good enough for the Gamemakers. Some of them turn away, but the leader of them continues watching, which is what matters. He throws one more and it gets a moving target directly in the head, which earns him a few nods.

Next, he takes a fake carcass that was laid out on a table next to the knives and guts it; he's never done this before, but he figures he doesn't have much else to do, and he's already good with knives, so he thinks it won’t hurt. He takes out all the bones and cuts off the head, laying all of the best parts on the table next to the skin, which he cuts so it could easily be manipulated.

After, he gives the Gamemakers a solid nod, thanks them, and leaves.

\--

His heart is beating quickly in his chest as he sits next to Emira on the couches that take up the majority of the area with the TV. It’s so luxurious and wonderful, Eames almost regrets not having been born a part of the Capitol with all their wonderful beds and electronics and food.

He waits in silence for the program with their scores to air while Greir, Tessa, and Emira’s stylist talk animatedly beside him. Despite Greir’s upbringing in District 3, she’s seems to have adapted quite well to the Capitol, not bearing the terrifying despair that she did on the train the day of The Reaping. She’s peppy and cute, enthusiastic about everything, but still respectful and appreciative, which you don’t find among many of the citizens. Eames finds her difficult to pinpoint.

When the TV blinks on without warning, the rooms falls silent as they stare at Magnus Vipointe’s face. He goes through unnecessary formalities in preparation for the scores to be announced, and Eames can’t pay attention to anything Magnus is saying. He looks at Emira, who is looking down nervously, twiddling her fingers. He pats her back. She looks up at him, caution in her eyes.

“I’m stickin’ with you, kid,” he says, and he finds that he means it. He barely knows her, has barely even heard her say a word, and yet he finds himself attached to her, as if she were his sister. His heart aches harshly, and he’s relieved when he sees a list of districts on the screen with each tribute.

Magnus starts to announce the scores, and it all goes straight past Eames until they get to the District 2 boy - Arthur, he remembers - who gets a ten.

Impressive, he thinks, and is suddenly even more nervous than before.

Quickly after, it’s his name being discussed.

“Eames Duri, the male tribute from District 3, scores an eight,” he says, and Eames lets out a relieved breath. It’s better than he thought it was going to be. “And Emira Whishart from District 3 scores a six.”

He feels Emira let out a small, satisfied nod, and then a murmur of congratulations passes around the room. They did fine. Everything is fine.

======

Arthur is more nervous than he can ever remember being while waiting for the scores to appear.

This score could make or break his entire Games, because no matter how much training he went through, if he doesn’t get any sponsors, he’s dead.

He shouldn’t have focused almost his entire presentation on knots. Knots aren’t vicious weapons that show just how bloodthirsty you are, or how well you’re going to kill the other tributes and come out on top. Knots are the first thing you’re taught at the Academy - seven year-olds can tie knots, and Arthur is sixteen.

But seven year-olds can’t do what I showed the Gamemakers, he tells himself, and takes a breath to calm himself down.

The TV screen flickers to life, and Magnus Vipointe’s face appears. Arthur’s not even paying attention as Magnus talks about the process of training and the evaluations, because he obviously knows.

Finally, Magnus begins to read off the scores.

“First off, we have the male tribute from District 1, Damask Combe, who has scored a nine,” Magnus says, and Arthur nods. He knew Damask was pretty good with swords, and knows he’ll have to keep his wits about him whenever he’s around him. “The female tribute from District 1, Tulle Hayes, scored a ten.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. It looks like both District 1 tributes will definitely be ample competition. “Next, we have the District 2 tributes,” Magnus continues, and Arthur remembers to be nervous. “The male tribute, Arthur Adjoy, has scored a ten, while the female tribute, Saffra Rankine, has scored an eight.”

Ten. He scored a ten.

“I scored a ten,” he says out loud, to affirm it, because he’s not quite sure he believes it’s real at this point. Of course, he has spent more than half of his life training, but most of that hasn’t been with knots. He’s so proud he could burst with it, and he wants call and tell his parents, even though they obviously already know since they’re watching from home. He wants to see the looks on their faces, wants to know that he’s actually, truly impressed them.

Arthur knows his dad won’t be drinking tonight, and that makes him so happy he can’t even bear it.

His mentors both congratulate him, and over the noise in the room over his and Saffra’s scores and the adrenaline and excitement coursing through his veins, he manages to catch Eames’s score. Eight.

Pretty good, he thinks, and then spitefully adds, but, “kid,” you’re gonna have to do better if you want to win.

It’s only later, when he’s already in bed and letting the energy from the day drift from his bones, that he realizes: he scored one point better than Savera.

Arthur falls asleep with a pit in his stomach, suddenly not so happy anymore.

======

Eames goes directly to his bed and falls down on it face first, and lets out a long suffering sigh.

He falls asleep to the sound of waves crashing on the beach, and wakes to Greir's hand on his back.

"Come on, breakfast is soon, then we have to do interview training. I brought your clothes, be in the dining room in a few minutes."

Eames groans in response and rolls over. He catches her back as she leaves and stares appreciatively. He may be mere days away from fighting for his life, but that doesn't mean that he can't be a guy while doing it. He's never had a specific preference toward either gender, but in the current day society, he felt that keeping that to himself was probably the smartest idea.

He rolls over, trying to savor just a few more moments of sleep, but can’t get further than closing his eyes. It seems that the energy of the Games is finally catching up to him.

He sits up in bed and tries to get rid of his tiredness by rubbing it out of his eyes. He didn’t sleep well, and he’s not exactly looking forward to the day in front of him.

He stands and looks distastefully at the clothes there. It’s an unassuming black jumpsuit, but he can’t help but hate it, feeling more disdain for the Capitol every day. What they do is so ridiculous, and nobody even questions them. He hates it.

He gets up regardless, slipping on his clothing and plodding to the dining room grumpily. He sits down next to Emira, who smiles at him cautiously, as if she doesn’t know if she should be doing such a dangerous thing or not.

“Hey,” Eames says, letting his irritation slide, just for her.

“Hi,” she says, and Eames blinks, and then grins.

“We’re working on talking, since the interview is tomorrow,” Greir says from the other side of the table.

“That’s good,” Eames says, patting Emira’s leg thoughtfully. “Do you know what you’re going to talk about yet?” he asks, and she looks as if she’s about to say no, but she just shakes her head instead, and Eames can barely hold back his laughter.

After that, they eat relatively silently. Tessa and her partner share a few low spoken sentences, but other than that, the only sounds is the scraping of utensils on porcelain plates.

Eventually, when they’re all finished, Greir motions for Eames to come with her.

“We’ll work with you first, because I think you need less time,” Greir suggests, and Eames nods his affirmation.

“You’re the boss.”

They move to Eames’s section of their floor, and sit down on a leather couch with a glass table placed in front of it. Eames is unfamiliar with all these luxuries, and he supposes that while he’s here, he might as well take advantage of them. He slumps back into the couch comfortably, and Greir gives him a look that says she’s clearly judging him with her back as straight as a rod and her hands resting on her lap politely.

“Alright, what’s gonna happen?” Eames asks, and wants to laugh at the look she’s giving him.

“First of all, you have to be presentable. Tessa will make sure your outfit and everything is nice, but you yourself have to make sure that you are fit to impress. So that means sit up,” she says, and Eames raises his eyebrows. He has never realized that she was so serious about this.

He moves from his slumped position on the couch and places his hands by his sides so he doesn’t look like a girl. “Now what?”

They go through the motions of what he’s supposed to do, how he’s supposed to speak and what to say. She helps him through any and all situations, even the most improbable, and she pretends to be Magnus Vipointe while he talks to her as if they’re on the show.

“Let’s say you’re about to tell him about something very personal - which the audience loves, by the way - like the death of your sister,” she says, and Eames tries not to flinch. “What you want to do is lean in close, like it’s only for his ears. Get about a foot from him, and tell him softly what he wants to hear, and aside from effect, the volume of your voice won’t impact the interview because you’ll be speaking into a microphone attached to your shirt.”

He leans in closely to her, just as directed, and says in a low and husky voice, “Like this?”

Eames sees her eyes bounce down to his lips, and he knows he’s attractive, because it’s not like he’s gone through life without a lot of attention.

He leans in even closer, and she knows what’s about to happen, Eames can tell, but she doesn’t do anything to stop it, and so Eames takes that as a go-ahead. He closes the last few inches between them, and their lips touch for the briefest moment before she pulls away violently.

“Sorry,” she says, and Eames looks at her incredulously.

“What is it?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “It’s just. I can’t get involved with someone who could be gone within hours And I’m six years older than you. It’s just... not right.”

Eames blinks. “Uh, yeah.” It’s stupid that he’s offended, because she has good reasons, it just seemed like she had been interested in him. “Of course, sure. So, are we good here?”

She nods, looking guilty.

“I’ll be going, then,” he says gruffly, and gets up and walks as quickly as he can without looking stupid back to his room. He sits and stares at the mountain projection on his screen for the rest of the morning, feeling like an idiot, and then finally lays back and sleeps until dinner.

======

Arthur spends the day after the scores are announced relaxing.

He knows that they’re supposed to be using the day to prep for interviews, but he’s taken classes prepping himself for just as long as he’s been training to kill. Whytt and Delphi of course know this, and they basically give Saffra and Arthur the day to do whatever they want after a quick review of key points over breakfast.

Arthur explores around the parts of the building he can access - the training room is locked now, lest any tributes get an unfair advantage, and he obviously can’t go onto the stage, since they’re setting up for the interviews, and he can’t explore the other district’s floors. So, really, all that’s left is the roof. He pads up there by himself and spends most of the day just looking over the skyline of the Capitol and drilling techniques and strategies and tips for making the interview run smoothly. At some point, he stretches and practices various hand to hand combat moves he learned over his years at the Academy that he hadn’t had time to practice in the training center. Throughout this all, he keeps his mind focused on the Games, and only the Games, and does not think of Savera or his parents or anything else that could be considered a distraction.

Around dinnertime, he retreats back to his floor, eating quickly. He goes straight to bed, only stopping to talk briefly with Whytt. Spending so much time by himself has rendered him almost completely antisocial, and he especially doesn’t want to put up with Saffra, who annoys him more each day.

The next morning Arthur wakes up feeling well rested, and somewhat prepared to deal with Spens.

That is, until Arthur finds out, much to his dismay, that Spens is a morning person.

Spens is in a cheery mood as he tries out different colours and styles for Arthur’s interview suit, and although Arthur isn’t feeling particularly antisocial, he still thinks that no one has any right to be as cheery as Spens currently is this early in the morning.

When he says so, Spens just laughs. “I suppose cheeriness in the morning isn’t a skill that can really assist you in the Games,” he comments, and Arthur rolls his eyes. He means this more fondly than rudely, though, and Spens seems to get that.

However, at the end of the day, Arthur has to admit he looks pretty damn good in his suit - it’s a pitch black piece with subtle pinstripes, and he has on a silver tie underneath the suit jacket. His hair is gelled back, and he finds that he actually doesn’t mind some of the makeup Spens has put on the emphasize certain aspects of his face.

He turns to Spens and smiles. “Thanks,” he says, and he means it. He feels confident now, he really does. Spens smiles back and says, “Good luck out there tonight,” and Arthur finds himself reassured that Spens means it.

\--

To keep his nerves at bay, Arthur watches Tulle’s and Damask’s interviews closely. This way, he doesn’t have to think about all the ways he could possibly mess this up, and he won’t say anything they’ve already said and look like a complete idiot.

Damask seems to have taken on the tough guy personality, while Tulle goes for the slinking, coy, femme fatale route. They both ace their interviews, but fortunately, Arthur has very little time to worry before he hears Magnus Vipointe calling him onto the stage.

Arthur walks onto stage, and heads straight for chair, his best glower in place.

“So,” Magnus says, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. “Arthur, yes?”

Arthur nods. “Yes,” he adds for affirmation, and because he doesn’t want to come off as mute.

“Arthur Adjoy, am I right?” Magnus adds with more significance, and there’s a pit forming in Arthur’s stomach, because he knows where this is going.

“Yes,” he repeats, palms sweaty. He knew, of course, that Savera would come up, but he didn’t know how nervous it would make him feel. He concentrates on sitting up straight, on looking tough.

“And Savera Adjoy, the District 2 tribute from six years ago, she was your sister, correct?” Magnus continues.

“She was my sister, yes.’’ There’s a beat of silence before he says, “I miss her a lot sometimes,” because that’s what everyone had told him to say. It’s supposed to make sponsors pity him, or something, and since most of the audience lets out a uniform “aw,” he guesses that it’s working. He says it in a tone that makes it very clear he does not want to be talking about this.

“I’m sorry for your loss, I’m sure it must’ve been really hard to watch your sister get killed,” Magnus acknowledges, and then says, “Congratulations on scoring a ten, though! Pretty impressive.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says, and, anticipating the next question, adds, “And no, I’m afraid I can’t tell you how I got that score. I need to keep my edge for the arena, and the element of surprise is something that should never be overlooked.”

“Very true,” Magnus responds, nodding. “However you got it, I know I’d be afraid to go into the arena with you.”

Arthur shrugs. “I’m here to win. I plan on being the one to come out of the arena, and I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to get there.”

“Well, good luck to you,” Magnus says, and then stands up. Arthur follows suit as Magnus says, “Arthur Adjoy, everyone!”

Arthur cracks a small smile at the audience as he walks off the stage, palms still shaking. The audience seems to have received him well enough, and that’s all that matters. He stands to the side backstage as Saffra goes up; even though it may be tedious and long, Arthur wants to be prepared, and interviews really can reveal a lot about a person. And Arthur is nothing if not prepared.

======

Greir pats Eames on the back as they wait in line for the interviews. He can hear the crowd’s polite but excited chatter, can almost make out their words as they discuss who they think will be good and who will be a flop.

He feels the nervous energy coming from most of the tributes around him. Emira is shaking behind him, touching his back occasionally for comfort. He’s worried about her, but he tries not to let it get to him too much, because it’s almost his turn and he doesn’t want to walk out onto the stage and have a panic attack in front of all Panem. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, and then another, just for good measure.

He sees the District 2 tribute, Arthur, exit the stage, and he almost regrets not listening in.

Suddenly, he feels a jolt of adrenaline go through him and is afraid to breathe in again for fear that the exhale will end with him on the ground, unable to continue on into the Games. Before he can focus on this any further, he’s being ushered up to the curtain by Greir. He’s given the ‘good to go’ symbol and he takes one more breath.

Eames’s heart is stuttering violently when he walks out onto the stage, tripping over his own feet. Magnus Vipointe beckons him and when he is finally standing in front of the silver haired man, he shakes his hand, firm and solid, and sits down. The audience is cheering, not quite as loudly as they had for the districts before him, but loudly enough. He smiles and waves, flashing his crooked teeth.

He turns to Magnus, who just looks at Eames for a moment.

“So, you’re Eames,” he finally says.

Eames grins. “That’s my name, try not to wear it out. The sponsors may get tired of it,” he jokes.

Magnus laughs and turns to the audience. “Isn’t he a riot?” he calls out, and they all laugh, as if on command. He turns back to Eames. “So, what can you tell us about your entrance the other day?” he asks.

Eames raises an eyebrow. “You saw it, nothing special. Just some factory workers,” he says modestly.

Magnus laughs. “You were pulsing with electricity! That’s not ‘nothing special’.”

“I suppose not, no. It was a lot of fun. As you all know, I wasn’t that crazy about being in the Games at first,” he says, waiting politely as the crowd murmurs their judgement, “but I’m just going with it now. I’ve met quite a few people here in your marvelous city. What about that Arthur, eh? Quite the character.”

Magnus claps in delight and the crowd cheers at his banter. “You are quite right about that,” he says as Eames turns to look backstage, winking at Arthur’s fuming face. “What about back at home? Is there anyone waiting for you to return a champion?”

Eames pauses and flashes back to the town hall, resisting a shudder. “No,” he says. “My four year old sister... was killed during the Reaping and my mother died in childbirth. I don’t know who my father is,” he says regretfully, and the crowd “awwws” on cue.

Magnus shares his expression and pats his back. “I am extremely sorry for your loss,” he says, and for a second, Eames almost thinks he means it.

There is a moment when Magnus wishes him luck, and the crowd roars with at least triple the enthusiasm they had when he first came out, and he walks off stage, waving with as charming a grin as he could achieve plastered on his face. He passes Arthur when he’s on the way out who looks like he wants to set Eames on fire. He doesn’t mind so much. Whatever gives him an advantage in the Games.

======

After the interviews, Arthur talks with Whytt briefly, who advises him to get to bed early. Tomorrow’s the big day, after all, the first day in the arena.

Arthur heeds his advice and bids his team goodnight, heading to his bedroom. He lies down on his bed and closes his eyes, and he tries to sleep, he really does, but finds he can’t. His mind is filled with images of possible ways he could die, ways it could all go wrong, and, most of all, filled to the brim with Savera.

Savera laughing as Arthur recounted his victory against Raff Greenlaw, a boy who was all muscles but no brain, Savera coming home from the Academy and announcing the news, that she was going to be the District 2 tribute. How stunning Savera looked in her golden interview gown, how she had charmed all the sponsors. Savera with the determined look on her face as she killed five people within an hour of the Games starting.

The expression on Savera’s face as she was stabbed from behind by the girl from District 4. Arthur’s fingers clench in the sheets, and he knows he won’t be getting to sleep soon, not at this rate. He slips out of bed quietly, and heads back up to the roof.

He sits on the edge, knowing there’s no possible way he could fall, not with the electric borders the Capitol added to prevent any possible suicides. He feels emboldened by his presumed invincibility, even if it’s just for a few hours more.

Savera had always been the favourite child of his parents. Everyone loved her, and everyone fell over themselves to get to her. Not because she was beautiful, no, but because she was tough, and had a certain grace when she was fighting. She could make Academy professors laugh, could pick up any and all skills within a few days. People loved her because she was determined, and she knew what she wanted, and she never let anything get in her way.

But she had let her guard down during the Games, and she was killed, and everything in Arthur’s entire life went to shit.

His father started drinking all the time, yelling at Arthur whenever he didn’t do well enough in school, whenever he brought home any marks that were less than perfect. He would drunkenly swing his fists in Arthur’s direction and tell him that he deserved it if he couldn’t even do as well as Savera had in a class, and Arthur would take it, because maybe he did deserve it, after all.

His mom became completely detached from his life, only caring enough to ask him how he was doing at the Academy, never failing to look disappointed.

Other people, Arthur knows, would let this get them down, but he threw himself into his Academy work with an abandon, and trained so hard some of his professors even began to be concerned. But it didn’t matter, because it had all led up to right now, to tomorrow, when he would be in the arena, when he would get to prove himself and right his family name and make his parents proud of him.

Arthur’s so deep in thought he almost doesn’t hear someone else padding up to the roof. He doesn’t turn around, just keeps looking straight ahead, assuming that once whoever it is sees that this space is occupied, thank you very much, they would leave.

But the footsteps don’t retreat. They stop.

Arthur turns around, and wishes he could be surprised that he’s met with the sight of Eames.

Arthur glowers in his direction. “In case you’re blind, this roof is occupied,” he says, and he means it to sound menacing, but it’s obviously not received that way.

Eames sneers in Arthur’s direction. “Thanks for the heads up, mate, but I’m pretty sure this roof doesn’t belong to you,” he snaps, and takes a seat on the ledge around twenty feet away from Arthur.

Arthur continues to glower at Eames, but it’s clear he’s not actually accomplishing anything, so he returns to looking over the edge. He tries to block out Eames’s presence, a shape he can see in the corner of his eyes, never completely forgotten.

His mind, without his permission, wanders to Eames’s sister, the little four year old girl they had killed when he had tried to escape. He remembers the way Eames had paused when asked about her fate during his interview, and something wells up in him. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s spent all damn night thinking about his sister, or maybe it’s the fact that it’s finally hitting him, that he could be dead tomorrow. But something makes him look up at Eames’s form and say, “I’m sorry about your sister.”

Eames’s head shoots straight up. “Yeah,” he says. “Like you know what that’s like, actually caring when people die.”

Arthur flinches, and scowls at Eames. “Did you actually listen to my interview, or only hear enough so that you could ridicule me in front of Panem?”

“I didn’t think your interview would be worth much to me, no,” Eames shoots back, a matching scowl on his face.

“Well, if you had listened, you would know that my sister died six years ago, asshole, so don’t tell me what I do and don’t know,” Arthur snaps.

Eames seems too surprised to say anything for a second. “Oh,” he finally responds. “I’m sorry.”

He’s fidgeting uncomfortably, and Arthur doesn’t blame him. Already he regrets saying anything.

After a few seconds of silence, Eames speaks up again. “How did she... how did she die?”

Arthur considers not responding, but what good would that do him? He’s thinking enough about Savera, he might as well say some of it out loud. “She was the tribute from District 2 six years ago. Stabbed in the back, literally, by the girl from District 4 on the second day of the Games,” Arthur responds quietly. He feels the overwhelming urge to pull his knees up to his chest, but he doesn’t, because he is strong and tough and he’s not going to get upset over Savera again, goddammit.

“Oh,” Eames says again. “I’m sorry.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Is that all you’re capable of saying?”

Eames lets out a startled laugh.

“What?” Arthur asks, narrowing his eyes.

“I wouldn’t have guessed that you could say something even leaning toward humorous,” Eames says.

“Oh,” Arthur responds, because apparently it’s his turn to not know what to say.

“Sorry,” Eames says, still laughing a bit. “Everything is funnier when there’s a possibility of dying so soon.”

“I guess,” Arthur says, considering. “Nothing to worry about on my end, though.”

Somehow, the second he says it, he knows it was the wrong thing to say. Eames immediately goes quiet. “No, I suppose you would feel like that,” he responds, his voice bitter. “How long have you been training for this? Ten years?”

“Nine, actually,” Arthur corrects, because he can’t think of any other way to respond. “The Academy starts at age seven.”

“Hmm,” Eames says. “So I am older than you. I thought you’d be younger than sixteen, though.”

Arthur grimaces. “Yeah, I know, I look around fourteen, you don’t have to rub it in,” he responds, rubbing his hand over his face agitatedly.

Eames, on the other hand, looks absolutely delighted at this discovery, that Arthur’s so peeved about the way he looks. “I dunno, kid, fourteen is a being a bit generous. Thirteen, maybe,” he says, grinning.

Arthur doesn’t know what makes him say it. He’s let his guard down, he knows that, and there will probably be consequences for this later, but he says, “She used to call me that.”

At Eames’s confused glance, Arthur adds, “Savera. My sister. The dead one? She was the only one who I would let get away with calling me something as aggravating as that. She - ” Arthur cuts himself off and gives a little self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I should - I should probably go.”

“Alright,” Eames says with a shrug.

Arthur stands up and starts walking toward the stairs. He turns around at the last second and says, “Eames?”

Eames looks up at him expectantly.

“I really am sorry about your sister.”

“Me, too. About your sister, I mean,” Eames says, and then pauses. “I would wish you good luck for tomorrow, but I don’t exactly want to screw myself over.”

“You don’t need luck when you’ve got skills,” Arthur responds, and he hears Eames laugh quietly.

“Goodnight, Arthur,” Eames says, and Arthur allows himself to smile slightly.

“Night, Eames. See you tomorrow,” he responds, and as he walks back to his room, he feels more light than he can ever remember being.

He hits his bed, and falls asleep instantly, his mind a peaceful blank for the first time in years.

======

Eames wakes up on the day of the Games at five in the morning. He’s exhausted, but his stomach is churning and he has a huge headache, which makes it impossible to go back to sleep.

He stumbles out into the main section of the floor and watches the sun rise up slowly from the window facing the center of the city. He distantly realizes that he’s probably going to die soon, and that hits him harder than he thought it would. He came into this tournament with an attempt to be completely detached, and he thought it would work for the longest time, because he had nobody left to live for. But he thinks about the seventeen years that he’s been living and can’t imagine it all disappearing for the sake of entertainment.

He sits in front of the window for three hours until Tessa comes out, dressed and ready to go. She smiles at him gently, and Eames thinksf that out of every Capitol citizen born and raised, he’s happy to have had her.

Then, he supposes that he’s just being sentimental.

Greir comes out with Emira some time later, a grim look covering her face. They don’t say much, and Eames realizes distantly that he doesn’t know how Emira’s interview went, but now doesn’t seem like the best time to ask.

They take a train to the take off area, and Greir hugs Eames goodbye, an apologetic look crossing her face. He doesn’t say anything, just grabs Emira’s hand and tells Tessa he’ll see her soon, and they board the hovercraft with all the other tributes.

The ride is long, but shorter than the train they took to the Capitol, and he’s getting slightly claustrophobic because there are no windows and he can feel Arthur staring a hole in the side of his head.

They finally land, and are taken through a series of tunnels that Eames figures are underground, since he can’t even see recess light through the cracks in the wall.

Eames and Emira are separated, and when he goes into his chamber, Tessa is there waiting for him with a look of determination on her face.

“Eames. You’ll do wonderfully,” she promises, and he nods.

“Thank you.”

It’s time.

======

Arthur, despite his late night conversation with Eames, wakes up feeling rested and ready for the Games. None of his doubts from last night are creeping in on him - he is going to go into the arena, whatever it is, and he’s going to come out alive, too.

He eats a quick breakfast before meeting with Whytt, who gets him into his approved arena outfit and they meet with Saffra and Delphi before taking the train to the takeoff area.

Once there, Whytt gives him a few terse words of advice before wishing him good luck and ushering him onto hovercraft. Arthur doesn’t even feel nervous as he walks up the ramp and into the hovercraft - he’s been training for years, and he knows exactly what to do. He sits at the end of a row of chairs, right next to Tulle. They review some strategy for Cornucopia in hushed tones as the Capitol women come around and inject the trackers in their arms.

At one point, he looks up, and spots Eames. He expects to be overridden with the hatred he had felt yesterday, the desire to kill Eames in the most painful way possible, but that’s not what happens at all.

I don’t want to kill him, Arthur realizes with a shock. He keeps looking in Eames’s direction, trying to will back the annoyance and murderous tendencies that he had until last night, but he can’t stop picturing the boy on the roof, who laughed with Arthur and said he was sorry for the fact that Savera died. No one had ever said that to Arthur, because no one was sorry in District 2 - just ashamed.

And the more Arthur thinks about it, the more Arthur doesn’t want to kill the boy from the roof. He doesn’t even want Eames to die at someone else’s hand, let alone his own.

This is an inconvenience, he tells himself, brought upon by overtiredness and sentimentality. Arthur cannot afford to be sentimental, so he turns back to Tulle, and doesn’t think about Eames again.

It’s not a moment too soon when the hovercraft lands, and Arthur is escorted by Peacekeepers to a small chamber which contains the cylinder which will take him to the arena. Spens gives him a small smile as Arthur steps into the chamber

“You’ll do great, Arthur,” he says.

“Thanks,” Arthur responds, a tense smile on his face.

The countdown begins, but Arthur doesn’t feel nervous at all.

He is going to win the 25th Hunger Games, and no one is going to stop him.

======

When Eames sees the arena for the first time, he’s astonished. He’s never seen anything like it in his entire life, all big towers made of glass and huge pieces of metal suspended over water. He’s not even that nervous as he stares at his surroundings, knowing that they must have been full and beautiful at some point in the past. Now, there are vines crawling up these enormous buildings that look as if they’re cutting across the sky and the large fountain spewing water in front of them has edges blundered by weather and stone, leaking liquid onto the concrete, and falling to iron grates resting just inside the ground. There are signs across all of the buildings, massive and looming, and right in the center of the square is a large screen, new and amazing compared to the rest of the broken landscape.

He looks around at the other tributes and sees that most of their astonished faces match his own. He spots Arthur almost directly across the fountain from him. His face shows little to no expression, but he does let his eyes wander for a quick moment, taking in his surroundings, analyzing.

The countdown clock starts on the big screen and Eames shifts his gaze back and forth between the numbers and Emira. Surprisingly, she looks ready, poised in a position to run. He follows her lead as his heart beats in time with the clock. He can see bags and equipment lining the fountain and around the edges of the square, and he makes up his mind that these aren’t a priority right now. He just needs to take Emira and get out.

The clock hits zero, and he launches himself off his platform, grabbing Emira’s arm and sprinting toward the outer edges. She looks surprised, as if she hadn’t expected him to stick to what he said, but he just spares her a quick glance of reassurance. They pass a bag on the way out, and Emira grabs it and slips it over her shoulders.

They run for what feels like hours, but in all probability is only a few minutes. They reach an inlet in the ground with signs covering the barred area around it, and they take a chance and go inside.

It’s long and dark, and Eames is considering making the suggestion to turn back when he sees a large compartment to fit at least three people connected to one of the stone walls.

“Do you think we’re far enough away to stay here for at least the night?” Eames asks her, and Emira contemplates it for a long moment before nodding hesitantly.

It’s dark and damp down here, but it’s better than being out in the open, so they go into the compartment and they put down the bag that Emira found.

She starts to speak up, and Eames figures it’s probably for the best that she learns to talk openly to him while they’re here.

“Um,” she says, and Eames gives her time to continue. “Do you want to look around and I’ll...” she trails off nervously and glances down at the bag on the floor.

Eames nods in affirmation. “That’s a good idea.”

He leaves the compartment, making sure that she’s settled properly before wandering off too far. The tunnel seems to go on forever, and he’s walked for about ten minutes and is about to turn back when he sees something startlingly familiar.

It’s a train, the silver rusted over, turning it brown, and it’s old fashioned and dated, but it’s a train all the same. He feels a sudden rush of joy, but then realizes that they have little that they can do with it, unless they can get it started again. It seems that this city, more and more similar to the Capitol now that he thinks about it, is hugely based on electricity. It’s the only time he’s ever been glad to be from District 3.

He runs back to Emira and finds her fiddling with a retractable crowbar, pulling it up and down in its shell. It’s something Eames had experience with, working in the factories. She looks up at him and shrugs, but then she pulls out a small bundle of three apples, and a canteen of water and he’s satisfied.

“Guess what I found?” he asks.

She shrugs.

He beckons her to come with him, and she stands, steadying herself with her hands, and leaves the bag on the ground for later.

They walk quickly back to the spot where the train lay, unattended and forgotten. She smile brightly.

“It’s a train,” she says, happier than he’s ever seen her before.

“If we can get it running, we have a way to travel quickly,” he says, sparing her the words. “But do you think we can?”

She grins. “We’re from District 3, Eames,” and he finds that he likes her more with every passing minute. Despite the large age difference, she reminds him a lot of Silver.

“We have a lot of work to do, if this is how we’re going to live here,” he says, and she nods, agreeing.

Emira grins and climbs into the conductor’s car through the window covered in broken glass.

======

Arthur is full of pure adrenaline as he takes in the arena.

It’s nothing he could’ve ever imagined, nothing like any arena Arthur’s ever seen before. But still, he recognizes it. The now-faded coloured streets, the tall buildings, the big screens... and then it clicks - Manhattan. Times Square. One of the busiest areas in the Old Age, before Panem was Panem. He’s seen pictures of it in his history textbooks.

What’s even scarier to him, though, is not the fact that this has all been preserved - it’s the fact that if this is Manhattan, they’re only mere miles from the land where District 13 once was. This island, he knows, never really belonged to any of the districts, and for a long time was actually presumed to have sunken.

And maybe it has. Arthur wouldn’t be surprised if this is just some replica of old Manhattan in the middle of nowhere.

But Arthur doesn’t have much time to mull over his basic history facts. The countdown is already at twenty seconds. Straight ahead of him is a running fountain - presumably their only source of drinkable water - and littered all around it are the supplies. Arthur can’t help but smile smugly as he spots the coil of rope resting against the fountain. That rope is his, and if anyone tries to take it, well - he’d like to see them try.

With ten seconds left, he does a quick checklist in his mind of what the easiest weapons to grab will be, for quick kills before he fights his way deeper into the center. He spots the girl from 9 - the one Tulle and he had had concerns about and sworn to kill at Cornucopia - across the circle from him, and then looks back to the center.

Three. Two. One. Zero.

Arthur sprints off his plate the second the “o” sound at the end of zero is started. Everything seems elongated in a second of silence, and then it bursts into chaos. Arthur quickly picks up a sword and turns around, stabbing into the male tribute from District 5. He keeps running and picks up two knives on the way, throwing one directly the girl from 9. She seems to be trying to avoid Cornucopia, but she’s not expecting the knife, which implants itself right in the back of her neck. Arthur doesn’t watch any longer than that, just congratulates himself and heads further into the bloodbath.

His heart is pounding double time as he runs deeper in. He senses a presence at his back and turns around, quickly throwing his second knife straight into the heart of the boy from 7. He ducks down and grabs the javelin from the newly dead boy’s arms and heads further still.

Finally, he arrives at the fountain. Most everyone has dispersed by now, and corpses litter the area that just seconds ago had been loud and full. Feeling safer as he grabs his rope and climbs into the fountain, he checks to see and - yes, the girl from District 9 is definitely dead. However, Arthur can’t spot the boy from 6 - the fast runner - anywhere, dead nor alive, and curses quietly to himself. It’ll take some serious planning to kill him.

He hears a splash of water behind him and turns quickly, javelin still in hand. He slowly lets himself relax from a fighting stance when he sees that it’s just Damask.

“How many did you kill?” Arthur asks.

“Four,” Damask says proudly, swinging his sword from his right hand to his left. “Both from District 10, the girl from 11 and the boy from 8. You?”

“The girl from 9, the boy from 7 and the boy from 5,” Arthur reports.

“Oh, good, you got the District 9 girl,” Arthur hears Tulle say from behind him as she steps into the fountain, a smile on her face as she surveys the carnage. “Did anyone get the boy from 6?”

Arthur shakes his head. Saffra also finds her way into the fountain at this point, and tells them that she killed the boy from 12.

“Tulle, who did you get?” Damask asks, apparently realizing she never reported.

“Uh, boy from 4 and girl from 6,” she responds.

“How many did we all kill, total?” Saffra asks, and Arthur adds it up in his head.

“Eleven tributes,” he says, then smiles. “Nice job, guys. We cleaned up almost half of them.”

Tulle smiles right back at him. “Are there any corpses not of our doing?”

They look around. “Oh!” Saffra shouts. “None of us got the girl from 7, right?”

Damask shakes his head. “So that’s twelve down, and we’ve been in the arena for less than half an hour. The tributes this year really are insultingly easy.”

“Who does that leave alive, then?” Tulle asks.

“Obviously us four,” Arthur says. “Both tributes from 3, the girl from 4, the girl from 5, the boy from 6 - ” he stops listing here as Tulle makes a disappointed huffing noise. “Uh, the boys from 8,9 and 10, and the girl from 12.”

“Pretty good,” Saffra says, speaking up. “And look at all the supplies that were left behind.”

A slow grin spreads on Tulle’s face. “It’s like they want us to win,” she says, and begins to pick up some of the supplies.

Of course, this leaves them with the question of shelter. Arthur looks around while absently picking up a few backpacks and weapons from the now deserted square. Most of the buildings are big, sure, but they need more than a big building - they need something that gives them an advantage.

His eye catches on a building in the far right corner of the square. Although the doorway itself is small, a giant screen that has most definitely seen better days lies on top of it, and it’s missing enough parts that Arthur can peer inside. It’s a huge space, going both up and down from street level, and lodged in the very middle, intercepting all floors, is a huge, round wheel with various carts attached to its edges. Perfect.

He gets the rest of his group’s attention and indicates the building, and they all nod, smiles lighting up their faces. They begin to drag the supplies inside, and after two or three hours, they’ve managed to get a good 85% of the supplies in the building. Arthur keeps his rope on his person the entire time, promising himself that he’ll hide it away somewhere so that no one else will take it.

At the end of the day, they have a very good amount of food, and pretty decent arsenal. Now, all they need is someone to use it on.

======

Life with Emira is very quiet. Eames feels like years have gone by instead of just hours, sitting in their small compartment together, watching her fiddle with a circuit board that is going to make the train move more smoothly or something once they get it up and running.

Finally, he decides to stand. He’s hungry, and they’ve already eaten the cans of beans. They were old and unsatisfying, and Eames feels the need for more sustenance, although it’s unlikely he’ll find it here.

“I’m gonna--” he starts, and Emira looks up at him. “Food. Yeah.”

She nods, and he nods in return. It’s becoming quite tense with her, and Eames hates it, because it’s not caused by actual discontent between the two of them, but because of the Games, if they both survive, one of them is going to have to kill the other. With Emira’s train and Eames being blatantly stronger than her, it wouldn’t exactly be easy. Plus, he genuinely likes her.

He steps out and jogs up the stairs out of the tunnel. He’s never been out here before, so he takes in his surroundings, the broken windows of dilapidated buildings and street signs, burned and fractured. Eames imagines that this place would have been miraculous at some point, taking into account its sheer size and architecture. It’s bigger than the Capitol and it’s hard to keep track of where he is. It’s only because of the numbers on the signs that he knows how to return to the same tunnel each time, since there seem to be so many of them around.

He sees a sign that marks the street as 48th, crossing over with... Broadway? He’s never seen a sign here that wasn’t numbered in order.

He shakes it off and goes toward the towering buildings, figuring that they’ll cover him from onlookers if they happen to be around. After walking for a moment or two, he figures out that he’s back where they first started, by the Cornucopia. The fountain is flowing, and he realizes that this is a better water source than drips from old pipelines and sewer systems. He takes the canteen and fills it to the brim, and then proceeds to empty it into his stomach. He does this one more time before refilling it a final time and topping it off. He scavenges around for more food in that general area, literally stumbling over some canned food. He takes it and piles it up into his arms, and is about to leave when he looks up.

He could swear that there was a figure on top of a building just seconds ago, moving about, and Eames hopes beyond belief that whoever it was didn’t see him.

\--

To Eames’s surprise, for the majority of the time they’re getting the train to start running again, he’s not doing any of the electrical work. It’s mostly along the lines of Emira saying “Carry this cord to the other side,” and “Clear the tracks for the next three meters.” Eames had never thought she’d be able to command anybody to do anything.

And while Emira is pondering over the train’s torn out command system, Eames is outside, exploring. He never ventures too far from the tunnels, he only glances around and takes canned food off the shelves of abandoned convenience stores and ground apartments, if he can break in.

He always brings them back and breaks them open with random rocks lying on the tracks as Emira looks at him contemplatively, as if she’s considering whether or not to kill him now and get it over with. But the look always dissolves into one of sadness, and Eames never knows what her thoughts actually entail. Or maybe he’s making it all up, and it’s the savage in him thinking these thoughts for her. With all the death in his life, he wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.

The next day he comes back with four cans of red beans and a smile on his face. He puts them in their compartment where they’ve been sleeping, and walks down toward where the train is supposed to be sitting, still and cold, as if melded into the Earth.

He is more than a little surprised to see that it’s not there. He’s confused at first, because where could it have gone? But then he realizes that someone has been working on it for quite a while. He didn’t know she was so smart. He almost feels elated, so glad to have a genius like Emira with him, when he starts to feel worried.

What if she got hurt? Even if she died - in which case Eames would obviously be upset, but that’s the Game - what would Eames do? He doesn’t know the city at all, just the couple of blocks he’s been exploring while Emira’s been working, they don’t have many weapons, besides the crowbar, and he doesn’t know how to run the train, so it would have been two days wasted.

Just as he starts to panic, he hears it. It’s lights are coming straight toward him from a direction they’d never explored, and he grins. Genius.

It roars past him, and he resists the urge to cover his ears. As soon as it’s out of sight, he starts sprinting toward what they’ve been calling home with hope clouding his eyes, and when he gets to their base, Emira is sitting on a makeshift table made of rock with a nonchalant expression on her face. The train is at a standstill next to Eames and he just runs toward her with his arms spread wide.

She drops her expression for one that matches Eames’s own, and wraps her arms around him in reciprocation to his hug.

“How did I get so lucky to get a partner like you, hey?” Eames asks. Emira shrugs and he laughs.

She pulls back, and she no longer looks happy, but nervous. “I think we should move,” she says, and Eames looks at her, puzzled.

“Why?”

She points to the entrance of the tunnels, and then moves her hair down her shoulders, and Eames thinks he knows what she means.

His eyes widen. “You saw a girl?” he asks, and when she nods, his face hardens. “Yeah, yeah of course. To where, though? We - you - just fixed the train, I mean... where would we go where we’d still have access to it?”

Emira grins again and takes out a folded up map from her pocket. She moves her index finger over the map until it lands on a station on the opposite side of the square at which they began, and Eames returns the smile.

“Genius, I say. You’re a genius.”

======

The girl from District 5 is the first one to make a mistake.

Arthur offers to take the first shift of watch that night, not because he’s generous, but because he has some knots to set up. If he, for some reason, ever has reason to get out of the toy store quickly, he needs an alternate escape route none of the others know about.

Luckily, he has his rope.

He climbs up until he’s on the fourth floor of what they’ve garnered is an abandoned toy store, with games strewn all over the place. There are special access elevators which Arthur easily hacks and finds himself in what must have been a board room back when this store was in use. The walls are either glass or actual windows, depending on the side they’re found, and Arthur carefully eases open one of them. He smiles when he spots the metal bar only a few feet above his head, and, tucking the coil around his shoulder, launches himself up and out of the window.

For a second, Arthur is afraid he’s going to fall, but then his hand hits the bar and he tightens his grip, refusing to let go. He reaches his other hand up and grabs on with that one as well, swinging himself up to the roof of the building. He smiles smugly to himself, knowing for sure that some camera must have caught every single second of that.

He stands at the edge, looking out into the abandoned city. It really is quite beautiful, in its own way. In its own abandoned, completely empty way.

Arthur shakes his head and steps back from the edge, spotting the closest building and getting to work. From what he can guess, the coil contains around 150 feet of rope, which, since he’s going to use a lot of it to connect this building to the one closest to it, will leave him around forty feet left to keep on him.

Arthur gets to work.

He ties a bowline to a sturdy, metal cylinder sticking up from the roof, and uncoils the rest of the rope. He backs up a little bit past the cylinder, and checks its stability one last time before throwing the rope across the gap. It just barely makes it.

He slides back through the open window and walks out of the store and onto the street. After quickly looking one way and another, and ensuring that his knife is tucked into his waistband, he sprints across the street to the neighboring building and quickly climbs the stairs up to the roof. He smiles when he sees his rope still lying near the edge of the building.

He ties a bowline to another cylinder on that roof, and then cuts the rope he’s just tied off with his knife. He stands there admiring his handiwork, and that’s when he catches sight of her out of the corner of his eye. The girl from District 5. She’s creeping through Times Square - looking for leftover weapons, Arthur guesses. He scowls in her direction and curses to himself quietly - he hasn’t had time to test his rope, and he has to race downstairs and quietly make his way back to the toy store where the rest of his allies are.

He manages to get to the floor where Saffra, Tulle and Damask are sleeping without being notice.

“Guys, wake up!” he hisses at them, and all of them begin to sit up. None of them look particularly groggy, but Arthur supposes they wouldn’t - one of the first thing they teach you at the Academy is light sleeping, and Arthur guesses that at least one of them was just feigning sleep.

“Girl, District 5, on the move outside,” Arthur says, quiet glee lacing his voice.

A smile lights up Tulle’s face as she reaches for the knife she seems to keep on her person at all times, and Arthur watches as Damask quickly runs off to some corner of the store, probably to fetch his sword.

Arthur, Tulle and Saffra are already rushing down the stairs by the time Damask catches up with them, sword in hand. They stop just before the entrance to the store, and peer outside. Sure enough, the girl from District 5 is still walking around, carefully scanning the ground as she goes.

Damask rolls his eyes. “Is she trying to get killed?” he asks, and they all stand walk toward the automatic doors.

They slide open softly, and the girl looks up. She spots them almost instantly, and begins to run.

Tulle is having none of that. She sprints ahead of the girl and cuts her off, blocking her exit, and the other three converge on her from the other directions.

“Hey, sweetie,” Tulle says, her voice overly sweet and so creepy Arthur feels goosebumps forming on his own skin. “I don’t know if you got the memo, but stealing isn’t allowed in Panem.”

The girl looks scared out of her mind, and Arthur can’t help but grin. He has a knife holstered in his belt, but he doubts he’s going to need it. This isn’t his kill.

Tulle raises her knife and places it underneath the girl’s chin so that it props her head up. “There are consequences for breaking rules in Panem,” she says, her voice eerie and quiet. “Do you know what those are?”

The girl is a blubbering mess at this point. “Please, please don’t kill me, please. I’ll do anything for you, please!”

Tulle quirks her head, pretending to consider. “Hmm, don’t take any offense at this, but I really don’t think we need anything from you,” she says. As soon as she says this, she quickly stabs her knife into the girl’s neck. The girl produces a gurgling noise of pain, and then drops dead almost immediately.

The sound of the cannon pierces the silence of the night, and Tulle smiles at the corpse, leaving the knife in her neck like a warning as they walk away.

\--

Damask offers to take over the rest of Arthur’s shift, but Arthur declines, insisting that he’s not tired and that Damask should go back to sleep. Damask finally relents, and Arthur heads back up to the roof with a practiced ease this time, wanting to inspect the rope. He takes his javelin with him, because he would like to have some weapon stored up there should he ever need to use it. He left the knife he used to cut the rope earlier on top of the second building but, as far as Arthur’s concerned, there’s no such thing as too many weapons.

He pulls on the knots that are wrapped around the cylinder on either roof, and, satisfied with their tightness, crawls to the edge of the building. He grabs hold of the rope with his hands and lets his body fall into midair. The rope dances around a bit, and Arthur swings himself so that he can lock his legs around the rope as well.

He quickly traverses across to the other building, and hoists himself up with a smile.

Arthur’s congratulating himself on a job well done when he spots Eames.

Even from four stories up, Arthur is positive that it’s Eames - it’s not just his physique, but also the way he’s carrying himself, the way he walks. He’s doing the same thing the girl from District 5 was doing, except he’s doing it more carefully. He’s treading along the edges, but, unfortunately for him, he’s on the opposite edge the square from the toy store, so Arthur has a perfect view of him.

Arthur raises his javelin, fully intending to throw it straight at Eames - he knows, despite the distance, that he wouldn’t miss - but he finds he can’t. It’s the same thing that happened on the hovercraft. Arthur looks at Eames, and sees the only person who’s ever said they were sorry for Savera’s death, and he can’t fucking do it. He watches Eames gather some canned food he and the rest of the Academy tributes had glanced over and quietly slip out the other side of the square.

Just this once, Arthur thinks to himself, still staring at the spot where Eames had last been.

Unfortunately, Arthur’s never really been that good at lying to himself.

======

The train here is nothing like the train they took to the Capitol. It’s loud, jolting, and terrifying. Eames feels like the it’s are going to kill him, especially since there are no windows in the car right behind the main control car, where he’s sitting. He feels like his head is going to collapse in on itself from all the pressure, and he can’t keep his head squeezed tight enough between his knees.

When it starts to slow down and Eames feels less like vomiting, he stands and bursts into the control room.

Emira is standing there, pulling levers and switches, acting like she’s done this for all of her life. Eames is slightly jealous of how smart she is, about how she never revealed it at all. Eames wonders if she has been preparing for this all of her life.

They get off at about the second or third stop they pass, and Eames has to resist the urge to throw up on the pavement. The train is very unlike anything he’s ever encountered, and that itself makes him nervous. Emira seems as steady as always, and that makes Eames a little mad. He doesn’t understand why she can go about living this dangerous and horrible life easily while he has to go through all of its hardships like everybody else.

Before he can say anything, he hears a cannon go off above ground, and Emira turns around, toward the staircase, closer to the compartment than the other station. Both the cannon and the proximity make Eames more nervous than they should, and he keeps quiet about whatever he was going to say.

They have to work together. It’s what they have to do to survive.

\--

Eames goes out for food often, not very fond of being stuck in the tunnels for all hours of daylight. He hadn’t contributed much to the construction of the train, so he just sits and watches as she does her thing which he doesn’t understand, and he’s just tired of it all.

He wanders around the streets for blocks and blocks before he knows that he has to turn back, happy to just be outside. He doesn’t know how many people are still alive, but he figures it must either not be that many or that this place is just a lot bigger than he initially thought.

He decides to get a higher view, and breaks the door of the first building with a high balcony that he sees. He takes the stairs all the way up, and finds himself in a long hallway of doors. He chooses one at random and sees that it’s completely abandoned-- and disgusting. There are dead bugs on the floor and piles of feces in the corners, and he figures out why they haven’t been staying in a place like this from the start.

He goes straight to the balcony and opens the doors up, stepping outside. What he sees is absolutely incredible. There’s a river to the right and parks and greenery further on, not what he expected from this city. The buildings seem more flat at this level, and he feels like he can see forever.

When Eames has finally had enough, he heads back down and starts walking back toward the tunnel. He’s so engrossed in what he saw that he walks for a few blocks and he realizes that he’s gone too far.

He turns around and is about to start walking back when he sees something out the corner of his eye. It’s a person, most definitely, a boy, but Eames can’t see exactly who it is.

Eames knows that boy sees him when he starts sprinting toward 45th, the opposite way from the tunnel that the train is in, and suddenly he has an idea. He drops all of the cans and starts sprinting back towards Emira, and when he finally sees her, she jumps in fear at the look of ferocity on his face.

“Quick, I need the train,” he says, and Emira stands immediately. She runs toward the conductor’s car and Eames bends down and grabs the crowbar off the floor, following. He can hear the train getting louder as she gets it started, and he boards the second car, spreading out the crowbar, feeling the metal in his fingers.

“Take us two stations south,” he yells, and the train starts rumbling as it moves down the tracks.

He braces himself on one of the poles and closes his eyes until he can feel the train slowing down. His heart is beating hard in his chest and he can feel the adrenaline running through his veins, pumping like blood. As soon as the train stops and the doors open, he sprints out, holding the crowbar behind his head on the right, and climbs the stairs to get out.

Just as he suspects, the boy is just a few meters ahead of him, not running anymore as he thinks he’s lost his threat. Eames almost laughs. He walks forward briskly and silently, and as he gets closer, he realizes it’s the boy from District 6.

He lets out a battle cry, half triumph and half fear, and smashes the crowbar into the boy’s head. He just smashes and smashes, absolutely relentless, and doesn’t stop until he can barely identify the boy’s face anymore.

He steps back and stares, wanting to throw up. He’s never felt so disgusted in his entire life, never felt so much like a terrible person as he remembers repeatedly smashing the bar into the boy’s face. He thinks it’s a good thing that he didn’t know his name, or else he probably wouldn’t have done it.

He turns the boy over and examines what’s left of his face carefully. The cannon booms above him, and he places his hands on the boy’s bloody chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, taking the boy’s bag from his back. He can feel Emira’s hand on his back.

“Me too,” she says, and together, they walk back to the tunnel.

======

It’d been a quiet couple of days since the games begun - the arena is big enough that no one is very good at finding each other, even though they looked, and the Gamemakers did more to try and kill the tributes themselves than push them together. But that didn’t mean Arthur let his guard down. Arthur could never let his guard down.

He and Damask are walking through the streets and scouting out places where people could possibly be hiding out three days into the Games when they hear the cannon.

Both of their heads snap up reflexively, and they look at each other.

“Do you think - ” Damask starts, and Arthur shakes his head.

“Nah, they were doing reconnaissance, they wouldn’t have made a kill unless it was absolutely necessary,” Arthur says, and they both start sprinting back toward Cornucopia.

One of the screens in the square has been left working so that tributes, if they’re willing to risk their lives, can come to the Cornucopia to see who’s been killed. That’s the only way - no holograms in the sky, no voice announcing it, only the screen in Cornucopia. And since everyone knows that’s where the Academy tributes are, no one dares come near.

Arthur can’t help the shocked expression that crosses his face when he catches sight of the newest addition to the pictures of the deceased - the boy from District 6.

“Fucking hell,” Damask mutters next to him. “I was really hoping to have him for myself.”

“So you mean that wasn’t you two?” Tulle asks, approaching them from behind. She’s alone.

Both Arthur and Damask shake their heads, and Tulle hums in consideration.

“Whoever it is that killed that son of a bitch, we can bet they’ll be competition for us. So I suppose we’ll just have to keep our eyes out,” she finally decides, and Arthur nods his agreement.

“Where’s Saffra?” Damask asks.

“She stayed where we were while I ran to find out who had been killed,” Tulle says. “I should probably go to - ”

They’re cut off by the sound of another cannon. They all turn their heads toward the direction it came from, and Tulle says “That’s the direction Saffra and I were wandering, she probably made a kill!”

The screen flashes and the girl from District 3’s face illuminates the screen. Arthur sucks in a breath, and he can’t help but think, unbidden, that he hopes Eames wasn’t close with her.

Jesus Christ, he really needs to stop thinking like that.

Sure enough, a few minutes later Saffra comes into view wearing a huge smile and a bloody sword. They all congratulate her on a job well done, and Damask asks Arthur how many tributes that leaves. “Us, the girls from 4 and 12, and the guys from 3, 8, 9 and 11,” Arthur reports, and Tulle nods, satisfied.

“And then there were ten,” Tulle says, almost laughing.

Later that night, when they’re all getting ready to sleep, Tulle asks Saffra what the kill had been like.

“She was quiet while I stabbed her,” Saffra says, glee in the undertones of her voice. “No one even heard her die.”

For some reason, this disturbs Arthur beyond words, and he finds he has more difficulty going to sleep that night than he has for a while.

======

Eames feels very much like he wants to cry. He knows there are several reasons why he should not, the first being that if he cries, all of Panem would see, and that would be completely mortifying, and the second being that he doesn’t want to upset Emira.

They walk briskly back to the tunnels, and Eames doesn’t say anything for fear that he’ll break. As soon as they go back down into the tunnels, Eames drops the bag that he got off the District 6 boy and walks down one of the directions the train follows, needing to be alone for a moment. Just a second.

He regrets this decision as soon as he makes it.

The cannon goes off after he’s been walking for two minutes. Eames lets out a noise of distress and sprints back in fear, hating himself more than he has in his entire life, because he can just feel it, he knows that something terrible has just happened.

As soon as he steps into the main section of the tunnel, he can see the blood and wants to vomit, wants to just collapse and cry and kill himself so he won’t have to suffer through these fucking Games anymore, because Emira is lying dead on the floor, impaled in several places in her chest and her neck with a retreating figure going up the stairs to the surface. It’s a girl, blonde hair, skinny. He knows immediately that it’s one of the career tributes.

Eames is kicking things and swearing revenge, unable to do much else, feeling like an insolent child. Once he’s calmed down enough to have confidence that he won’t do something drastic, he looks at his friend’s body. Emira’s eyes are wide open and her face is frozen in an expression that says she knew that she was about to be killed.

Eames has never wanted to kill anyone more in his entire life. And that’s sick, because he just killed a boy and felt terrible about it, didn’t want to harm anybody else ever, and now all he wants to do is strangle the girl that killed Emira.

He sits down as close to her body as he can without being covered in blood, and this time he doesn’t feel bad about crying, because despite the fact that she had only said around ten words to Eames, he still considered her like a little sister, a sister to replace his own, fill the hole in his heart. He shrinks into himself and covers his face with his hands and lets the tears stream down his face.

He knows what he has to do.

\--

He decides to switch tunnels again. He spends nearly the entire night trying to figure out how to operate the train. Thankfully, Emira had scribbled down little numbers next to each control which makes the process a lot less difficult. Despite this, Eames feels exhausted by the time he thinks he’s figured it out, so he eats one of their apples, brings all of their supplies onto the train, and sleeps in the conductor’s car.

He doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes up, but he figures it has to be very far into the next day, so he decides he can’t waste anymore of his time, and starts up the train as best as he can. He pulls levers and pushes buttons and he doesn’t even know what he’s doing half the time, but he hopes for the sake of revenge that it doesn’t explode.

Before he pulls the final lever, he goes through the bag he got off of the boy from District 6. He hasn’t had time to look through it, since as soon as he got back from killing him, he went for a walk, and then Emira was killed. It hadn’t seemed like an extreme priority at the time.

His mouth stretches into a grin as he dumps the contents of the bag onto the train floor. Another canteen, half full, about three yards of twine, and, to his extreme delight, two thin, sheathed knives.

He takes one out and examines it carefully. He runs his thumb against the edge and is pleased to find that if he pressed any harder, beads of blood would be forming on his skin. He tucks it back into its sheath, and then shoves it into his waistband. He takes the other and does the same thing, and when he’s satisfied, he pulls the final lever and is on his way.

The ride is very bumpy, a lot more so than it would’ve been if Emira was controlling it, and instead of slowly coming to a stop at the tunnel, the train stops abruptly and Eames has to hold on to something so he doesn’t fall down.

When he’s regained some sense of balance, he exits the train, leaving the bag in the car. He walks into the familiar tunnel and looks around cautiously before stealthily moving toward the center square.

About halfway there, he hears a beeping noise and panics. He has no idea what this means, has never heard anything like it while he’s been there, so he immediately ducks and covers. He tries to wait out the beeping, but when it doesn’t stop, he lets go of some of his caution. He glances around and sees the source-- a metal ball with a parachute attached. The sponsors have finally made an appearance.

He grabs it and tears off the parachute, opening it immediately. Inside is a note.

Be a housecat and not a tiger. Keep stealth on your side.

Eames stares at it for a considerable amount of time, sighing deeply at Greir’s cheesiness. Eventually, he puts the note to the side and takes out the container from inside the ball. He unlocks the latches and pulls out a wrap of bandages. He considers the merits of looking like an idiot before looking up at the sky and nodding.

He continues on, this time looking around him and attempting to stay more out of sight, not letting his anger blind him. He reaches the square with the fountain and stays directly out of sight, only leaving a bit of space for him to see what’s going on.

He waits and waits, and the sun is setting when he finally sees somebody. It’s Arthur and the girl that killed Emira, and his anger that had calmed down somewhat in his time waiting rages up again.

He grabs the knife from its sheath and poses to strike. They get closer and closer, and as they advance, Eames can see that Arthur’s eyes look pinched and frustrated, and Eames realizes then that he doesn’t know what he’s going to do about the other boy.

He’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

They turn their backs and Eames takes this as his chance. He steps out and throws the knife, aimed directly toward the back of the girl’s neck.

There’s a moment of fear that he’ll miss, that she’ll turn around and do something ridiculous like catch it, but that fear is quickly dispelled when the knife lodges itself into her neck, and she stills for a moment before falling heavily on the ground. Arthur turns around, astonished, and Eames considers throwing the other knife, but his feet are moving before he can make any conscious decisions. He’s running back toward the tunnel, running faster than ever before, but every time he looks back over his shoulder, Arthur is just standing and staring, like he can’t believe he got away.

Neither can Eames.

======

Arthur is, for lack of a better word, stunned.

Not just because Saffra’s dead, no, but because he can see that the retreating figure - Eames, he tells himself, it’s definitely Eames - has another knife tucked into his waistband, a knife that he could’ve easily thrown at Arthur the same way he threw it at Saffra, a knife that could’ve meant Arthur’s death.

Arthur doesn’t know why Eames spared him. He remembers, vaguely, the first time he ever spoke with Eames, in the training center - Eames had been pretty fucking good with knives. He had been throwing long distance when he’d bumped into Arthur, and later Arthur had seen him throwing two at a time, three at a time, even.

So if Arthur thinks about it, he really should be dead. There is no reason, logically, why he is still alive right now, why Eames didn’t kill him as well.

The cannon goes off overhead, but Arthur doesn’t even care, can’t even care. He’s just gulping in air, taking deep breaths, calming himself down. He’s treasuring every last inch of his shaking body the way only a man who just met with death and barely escaped can.

He only just registers Tulle and Damask coming up behind him.

“What happened!?” Tulle asks, and Arthur shakes himself out of his daze.

“I was - one second I was trying not to punch Saffra out of frustration, because she didn’t understand the rotation in sleeping shifts, and the next thing I know she’s just - dead,” he says, and when Damask makes a sympathetic noise, Arthur doesn’t correct his assumption that Arthur’s so shaken because Saffra is dead. To be quite frank, Arthur really couldn’t care less about Saffra’s life. It’s the fact that he was so close to dying that has him on edge.

“Well, did you see who did it?” Damask asks. “We could go for a revenge killing. That fucker’s gonna die eventually, might as well do it now.”

Arthur doesn’t even hesitate before shaking his head. “No, the son of a bitch got away before I could see. Must’ve been a long distance throw,” he says, and thinks, Why?

“Sucks,” Damask says. “It would’ve been nice to kill the little shit that murdered our teammate.”

Arthur shrugged. “I suppose,” he says, and then, after a pause, “She was the weakest link, though.”

Tulle and Damask look at each other and then back to Arthur. “We thought so, too. As long as you’re not upset about it, good riddance,” Damask says.

“We’ll be unstoppable without her,” Tulle said, throwing her arm around Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur tries not to flinch away - he’s never been a very touchy-feely person. “C’mon, let’s head back. I had an idea for hunting down some of the remaining tributes.”

Arthur nods dumbly, only glancing back once before they leave. It’s useless, of course - Eames is long gone.

\--

Arthur wakes up the next morning to the sound of the Panem National Anthem.

He blinks his eyes a few times and then sits up, checking to make sure that Damask and Tulle are awake. When he confirms this, he unsteadily stands up and makes his way outside so he can hear the announcement better.

“Good morning, remaining tributes of the 25th annual Hunger Games! We have a special announcement for you all,” the voice, presumably the Gamemaker, says over the loudspeaker.

“Oh, this sounds promising,” Tulle says, smiling.

Arthur couldn’t disagree more - there’s a pit forming in his stomach, slowly and surely.

“As you all know, this is a very special Hunger Games - whoever wins this Hunger Games will have the distinct honor of being the first person to win a Quarter Quell, Games with special characteristics which will only take place every twenty-five years.”

Before anyone can say anything, the Gamemaker continues on. “I know what you’re all thinking - there isn’t anything special about these Games. But that’s where you’re wrong. From this point on -” the Gamemaker pauses here, presumably for dramatic effect, “you may work in partnerships, and if you and your partner are the last two tributes to survive, you will both be crowned Victors of the first ever Quarter Quell.”

Arthur sees, out of the corner of his eye, Tulle and Damask making eyes at each other. He resolves to get out of here as soon as possible. Of course, he doesn’t anticipate what the announcer says next.

“However, there is one condition,” he says, and then pauses again. “The person you form a partnership with must be from a different district than you. Thank you.” The anthem begins to play again, and then the loudspeakers go dead.

Damask turns to Arthur. “Well, Arthur, I suppose that leaves you and me,” he says, smirking, and Arthur doesn’t even have a second to think before he pulls his knife out of his waistband with practiced ease and stabs it straight into Damask’s heart.

Damask’s face contorts in shock for a quick instant before his body collapses underneath him and the cannon sounds from above.

“What the fuck, Arthur!?” Tulle shouts, and Arthur doesn’t give Tulle a chance to do to him what he just did to Damask before turning around and heading toward the toy store. He sprints up the stairs, grabbing a backpack and quickly stuffing some canned food and knives into it before throwing it over his back. He can hear Tulle approaching, and calls the elevator, never once turning his back toward the direction Tulle is chasing him from.

Turning your back is what killed his sister, and he won’t make the same mistake.

Tulle rounds the corner just as the elevator doors spring open, and Arthur quickly ducks in and presses the “door close” button. Just before the doors slide shut, Arthur hears Tulle shout and feels the wind of a knife whizzing right by his right ear. Arthur lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding as the elevator begins to move.

Once the door opens, he doesn’t waste any time easing himself out of the window and onto the roof. He heads straight for his rope and starts climbing across the gap between the two buildings, slowly but steadily. He’s just made it across and is beginning to cut the rope when he hears a commotion coming from the top floor of the toy store.

He doesn’t spare it a glance, knowing it’s Tulle. He just cuts faster, and the rope finally snaps. Arthur hurriedly picks up the javelin he left on the roof along with the knife he just used to cut the rope and the remainder of the rope itself, and then eases himself into the other building.

He sprints down the stairs and out of the building, heading out of the square and in the direction he had seen Eames retreat toward.

Because as much as he wants to deny it, the reason why he killed Damask is simple: the first thought after the announcement had been made wasn’t of Damask or Tulle. It was of Eames.

======

Eames works straight through the night and into the next morning, trying to further figure out the train controls. He can feel the exhaustion catching up to him, but he doesn’t want to be trapped down here.

When Eames hears the announcement, he doesn’t think much of it. He doesn’t have any alliances, and even when he did, it was Emira with, and she wouldn’t have qualified.

He thinks that if the opportunity comes up, then he’ll take it, but he’s not going to actively pursue anything. He convinces himself that he’s not hoping for anyone in particular, and goes back to fiddling with train controls.

He hears a cannon in the distance. He can’t bring himself to care.

He takes a break an hour or so after the announcement, sleeping right there in the conductor’s car, and wakes up around what he assumes to be noon.

As he gets more and more tired, his hands begin shaking and his stomach growls loudly. He hasn’t eaten much since Emira died, only an apple, both out of grief and remorse. But as his body threatens him, he thinks it’s about time to get something in his stomach.

He hops out of the train window and walks over to the compartment, reaches for one of the cans to cut it open with his knife. It’s a relief in more than one way that he got the knives, because previously, he had spent too much time cutting open cans with spare rocks lying around.

He digs in, eating straight from the can, and nearly cuts his fucking lip open when he hears a voice behind him.

“That didn’t take half as long as I’d expected.”

Fuck. He whirls around, dropping the can and grabbing the knife off of the ground behind him. Right when he’s about to throw, he turns around to look at his attacker and stops himself, not expecting to see Arthur.

Arthur holds his hands up, hesitant, as if to say he’s not a threat.

“What are you doing here?” Eames growls, pulling the knife close to his chest.

Arthur seems almost confused. “The announcement. I came to ask if you... wanted to be partners?”

Eames stares at him, mouth hanging open in astonishment. “You can’t be serious.”

Arthur’s brow furrows. “I assure you, I am completely serious.”

Eames considers this for a moment. “How do I know you’re not doing this so you can kill me?”

Arthur shrugs. “Don’t you think I would have killed you while your back was turned? While you were eating?”

Eames shakes his head. “What about your... friends?” He hesitates on the word, not knowing quite what to call somebody who kills alongside you.

Arthur twists his mouth. “Did you hear the cannon earlier today?”

“Maybe.”

“That was me. Killing Damask. So I could be partners with you.” Arthur’s words are stilted and awkward, and he grimaces further, as if he hates himself for saying so.

Eames stops in his tracks. “Why?”

If he didn’t know any better, Eames would say that Arthur was blushing. “Because, uh. You’re stronger than he is. And smarter. And less annoying.”

“But you hate me,” Eames says, but lowers his knife a bit.

“I never hated you,” Arthur says, and Eames knows that’s not true, but he can tell that everything else is. Plus, Arthur’s a career tribute. Why would anyone say no if a career tribute wanted to be your partner?

Eames looks down, and tucks the knife back into his waistband.

“Alright then,” Eames says. He doesn’t quite know what to do. “Um.”

“Yeah.”

“Yep.”

A silence stretches awkwardly before them as Eames picks up the can again and continues to shovel it down. His hunger eventually dissipates, and he can feel Arthur just watching him.

After just staring at the can for an inordinate amount of time, he turns back to Arthur. “Anything you want to say?” he asks, because he can tell that something is on Arthur’s tongue.

Arthur rubs his hand across his face. “Yeah.” He pauses to sit, crossing his legs and leaning back on one hand. “Why didn’t you kill me back when you killed Saffra? You had the perfect opportunity, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything.”

Eames has to stop and think about this for a second. “I guess it was just a survival instinct. Kill and run. Plus, you never did anything to me in these Games. She killed my sis-- Emira. She killed Emira, so I had to kill her.”

Arthur furrows his brow, but nods. “And the other people that were killed? Do you know about them?”

“The District 6 boy was me. The opportunity was there. I regret it.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you regret it?” Arthur asks.

Eames is shocked. “What do you mean, why do I regret it? I killed him, for fuck’s sake!”

Arthur stays silent for a moment. He looks almost pensive.

Eames stares at him, eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

Arthur purses his lips. “You know. I mean, I guess it may be different for me since I grew up this way, but, is there any reason in particular?”

Eames cannot contain his astonishment. “Um, yeah, because it’s horrible and wrong and you’re taking away somebody’s life. Obviously you don’t really get it, but it takes a huge toll on people. It’s not just some simple thing.”

Arthur frowns. “I do get it. My sister died in the Games, remember?”

“Yeah, and remember how tragic and horrible you felt? That’s how other people feel when you murder their children and brothers and sisters. It goes both ways, Arthur.”

“I - uh. I guess I never really thought about it like that.” Arthur looks down. “I’m sorry.”

Eames squints. “I mean, I don’t really think you need to be sorry. It’s how you were raised. I guess.”

“Yeah.”

Eames sighs. I can tell we’re going to be great together, he thinks, and stands up to show Arthur the train.

======

Arthur kind of feels like dying.

Already he regrets finding Eames to be his partner, because a frenzy of unwanted emotions are lodging themselves in his stomach, knotting it up. Sure, Arthur’s been trained to kill since he was seven, but from before he even entered the Academy he’d been taught to celebrate the death of tributes from other districts, and only treat the death of tributes from his own district with shame, because it meant that they had shortcomings that they had managed to mask in front of the Academy. He wasn’t taught to think of the families who might be affected by their child’s death - the kids on the TV were only tributes, people who had to be killed so that his own district’s tributes could come home.

And so Arthur had never associated how he felt about Savera’s death with the deaths of other tributes - not because he was selfish, but simply because he had never thought that anyone else felt the same way he did. All he ever heard from everyone else in his district, everyone else he knew, was that he should be ashamed of his sister, that she didn’t deserve to be mourned. His feelings about Savera were private, and he could never voice them, and therefore felt alienated and alone. He just assumed that he was the only person to ever feel this sadness.

Arthur is only now seeing how stupid and sheltered that assumption is. He, the boy who’s been trained to kill people for nine fucking years, is more sheltered than he could’ve ever imagined. He’s seen death and torture, has had his fingers painted with blood from both himself and others, and yet he’s so sheltered he can almost choke on it. The irony actually makes him laugh out loud.

Eames glances at him, startled, and raises an inquisitive eyebrow in Arthur’s direction.

“Oh, it’s, uh. It’s nothing,” Arthur says, and feels the tension seeping back in between them. In an attempt to ebb away at it, he adds, “This train thing is pretty cool. Did you figure it out?”

Eames shakes his head. “No, that was - that was Emira.”

“Huh. She must’ve been pretty smart, then,” Arthur says, and it’s almost like a peace offering.

Eames gives Arthur a guarded smile. “Yeah, she was,” he says, accepting the offering for what it was.

A few more minutes of silence pass between them as Eames maneuvers around the train tracks. Arthur has never been a person to fill up silences needlessly, but something about this feels necessary, like he owes this to Eames.

Which is crazy because he doesn’t owe Eames anything. Except that Arthur was the one who approached Eames about this whole partnership thing, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel obligated to keep up the conversation.

“So... you were, uh, you were close with her?” Arthur asks, voice unsure.

Eames’s head turns toward Arthur. “Huh?”

“Emira. Were you close with her?” Arthur asks, still stumbling over his words a bit.

“Oh,” Eames says, and then, “Yeah, I suppose I was close with her. Never really knew what she was thinking, since she didn’t really talk much, but. Yeah.” Eames turns back toward the front of the train car, clearing his throat.

Arthur nods, and then says, “I’m sorry she died.” To his surprise, he finds he actually means it.

Eames shrugs a single shoulder, and says, “It would’ve happened eventually.” He’s obviously going for nonchalance, but landing far from.

“I’m still sorry,” Arthur insists. There’s a pause, and then Arthur continues on, not stopping to let himself think. “My first thought when she died was for you, you know,” he says, and promptly wants to shoot himself in the foot.

Eames doesn’t say anything, just quirks his eyebrow at Arthur, obviously waiting for Arthur to continue. Arthur really dug his grave this time around.

When Arthur continues to say nothing, Eames says, “Mind explaining?”

Arthur can feel himself flushing. “Just, I just hoped you weren’t close, so you two wouldn’t, you know, be upset?” Arthur’s voice goes up toward the end of his sentence, making it sound like a question even though it’s a statement.

Arthur turns away, regretting his entire existence. Eames is giving him a sidelong glance, a surprised look on his face. It smoothes out into a small grin, and Eames says, “Well, aren’t you sweet?”

Arthur makes an indignant noise. “I am not sweet!” he exclaims, offended.

Eames just laughs again. “If you say so, pet,” he says, much to Arthur’s chagrin. Before Arthur has a chance to respond, Eames says, “So, if you want to stop, you pull this lever here, and if you want to turn left... ”

Eames continues giving instructions on how to operate the train, and by the end of the day, Arthur has got the swing of things. They don’t talk that much, and neither comment on the cannon that goes off around an hour into the training.

It’s easier that way.

======

Eames wakes up the next day to find that his arm is touching Arthur’s back. Arthur is awake, but he makes no move to stop Eames, and Eames wonders why, considering all the space that’s left in the compartments.

Eames groans and rolls over, pulling his hand back to himself and groggily rubbing his eyes. He takes a second to collect himself and then pushes himself into a sitting position. Arthur gives him a nod and then goes back to staring at the wall, blinking blearily.

“You can sleep now, if you want,” Eames suggests, and Arthur shakes his head.

“I don’t think I can sleep now,” he says, looking down at his hands resting uselessly in his lap.

Eames stares too, and bites his tongue before he can ask why. “Alright. Just tell me if you’re going to so I can keep a lookout.”

Arthur nods and stares at Eames blankly. Eames has to restrain the urge to comfort the kid. They’re in the middle of the Games, they cannot afford to be sympathetic, even toward their own partners.

He starts working on the train again, although there’s not much else to do. He mostly cleans out the old garbage from each car, not really seeing the necessity but doing it more to keep himself busy. He never knew that life in the Games would be quite so boring.

He’s back to fiddling with the controls when Arthur comes in behind him. His eyes are sunken and he looks absolutely terrible.

“Are you getting sick?” Eames asks, concerned that he might have to take care of him. Not concerned for him, not at all.

“No, I’m just... I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Arthur says, sagging on the doorframe. “About how everybody feels the same way that I did. Well, I just wanted to say I’m sorry again, both for your sister and Emira. I know it has to be hard, and I just wanted to get that out there.”

Eames keeps his face as blank as he can, while on the inside, feeling rather nostalgic. There’s nothing for him at home, but at this point, it’s all he really wants.

“Like I said, you don’t have to apologize.” He turns away and feels immediately guilty for doing so. Arthur had taken time to gather the courage to say sorry, and Eames had just disregarded it. He thinks he might have been a bit cruel, and that thought is followed up with When did I get so soft? He looks over his shoulder at Arthur standing there, defeated, and says, “But thanks anyway.”

\--

Arthur falls asleep immediately after Eames - sort of - accepts his apology. He curls up on the compartment floor, using Eames’s pack as a pillow, and Eames watches him, finding the way he mutters softly to himself strangely endearing. He’s not unattractive, not by any means, and without even meaning to, Eames nearly memorizes Arthur’s breath patterns and the lines of his face and how relaxed he looks when he’s resting.

Arthur wakes about three hours later, looking far more rested than he had previously. Eames lets loose a little smile, and Arthur returns it hesitantly. He sits up and neither of them say anything for a while.

It’s like Emira never left, Eames thinks, and internally flinches.

“I get what you mean about, like, feelings and stuff, but wouldn’t you rather just get the Games over with? If we finish people off, we get to go home sooner,” Arthur says suddenly, and Eames gives him some slack. He can see that he’s trying.

“The way I see it,” Eames says, “Is that they’ll all finish each other off eventually, and whoever killed all of them will come to find us, and whoever is stronger wins. You end up killing the same person anyway, and hunting them down would be no different. It’s not like I haven’t thought about this.”

Arthur nods. “It’s just, I feel like a sitting duck here, just sleeping and eating - we’re running out of food, by the way - and it’s making me antsy.”

“I think that’s why we should stay here. Keep our energy for when the time actually comes,” Eames reasons, and just as he finishes, a cannon booms above them.

The silence looms between them for a moment before Eames says, “See what I mean?” and that’s the end of that conversation.

======

Arthur hates it in the tunnels.

Not because he hates Eames, not by a long shot, because even though that’s how it may have started, he can barely remember what it feels like to hate Eames - but because he feels useless. He feels, quite honestly, like he’s letting down his family.

Sometimes, while he’s down here with Eames, doing nothing but waiting, it’s easy to forget that every single thing he does is being broadcasted to all of Panem. He can’t help but think that his idleness is costing him sponsors.

And, God, is that the wrong way to think? Eames has made it very obvious that he believes so. But he just feels so anxious, and despite Eames’s increasingly condescending reminders that Arthur shouldn’t leave, Arthur can’t stay still.

That night, Arthur waits until Eames has fallen asleep and then quietly sits up and walks out of the tunnels. He has two knives tucked into his waistband - even down in the tunnels he’s still paranoid enough to always be armed - and feels adequately prepared for any and all eventualities.

He lets out a sigh of relief as he feels fresh air lacing through his lungs for the first time in what he thinks is about 36 hours. Arthur was trained to be active, to always be doing something, and it feels good not to be stuck in the tunnels anymore. The air near the train tasted stagnated and stale, just how Arthur was beginning to feel. He slides into the shadows of the buildings and starts sprinting, looking for any indication as to where another tribute could be.

In his mind, he tries to calculate who’s left, and then realizes that two cannons went off for deaths he didn’t witness, and couldn’t see via the screen. He curses quietly, telling himself it’s not worth the risk to go to the Cornucopia and check, even though he’s sorely tempted to..

That doesn’t change the fact that Arthur absolutely hates feeling like he doesn’t know everything. In the Academy, that’s one of the things they ingrain in you from a young age: always know what’s going on in the arena, from who’s still alive to where the nearest water source is to any indications that could give hints as to where the other tributes are. Arthur feels helpless, at a loss, and he hates it.

And, of course, thinking of the Academy makes him think, once again, of his parents. When he killed Damask and asked Eames to be his partner, and told him all those idiotic and sappy things, he’d forgotten that all of fucking Panem could hear him, and that included his parents.

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut as he imagines what his dad would’ve done if he could have, can almost feel the bruises forming on his skin. He can hear his dad’s voice, the unspoken words bouncing around in his head: How dare you, Arthur! Killing a tribute that could’ve helped you a lot more than this - this miscreant in the tunnels and then apologizing for celebrating the death of tributes the way it’s supposed to be? I know this can’t be my son, because my son would never bring so much shame to the Adjoy name.

It almost physically hurts, but Arthur shakes his head and continues on. He just needs to make a kill. One kill and he’ll feel less helpless, less like he’s disappointing his parents.

He only has to wander aimlessly in the direction away from Cornucopia for five more minutes before he gets his chance. A thin boy is sitting toward the right side of an intersection, huddled up under a coat for warmth, clearly tired but not asleep. He has a vice grip on the sword that’s lying across his lap, and Arthur smiles, because this won’t be someone who goes down without a fight.

He picks up a small piece of broken asphalt and throws it across the intersection. The boy immediately sits up straighter, his head lurching toward the direction where the asphalt landed. Arthur can’t help the way his grin becomes wider as the boy takes his bait and heads in that direction, turning his back on Arthur.

Arthur matches the rhythm of the boy’s strides exactly, but he doesn’t stop when the boy stoops over the pick up the piece of asphalt. Arthur takes another step closer, purposely making noise on the downstep, and watches the boy tense up.

Arthur takes the quick second he has before the boy’s sword is embedded in his stomach to kick at the back of the boy’s right knee. The boy collapses down but doesn’t let go of his sword, just lies on the ground and glares up at Arthur, pointing his sword straight in Arthur’s direction.

“I’m not a scrawny idiot,” he says defiantly. “I could kill you, I could kill you easily.”

Arthur smirks down at him. “I’d like to see you try,” he says, and then adds, “Here’s a tip: never place your weapon in a position that allows it to be effortlessly disarmed by an opponent.” Before those words sets in, Arthur kicks his leg toward the sword and curves his ankle, tugging it out of the boy’s grip and causing it to skid across the intersection.

Arthur slips one of his knives out of his waistband, and sees fear in the other boy’s eyes. It makes him hesitate, remembering what Eames had said about this kid’s family and friends, but then Arthur thinks of his own family, about how he can’t let them down.

The boy, to his credit, refuses to cry or beg for mercy. He knows he’s been beat and is silently accepting that. Arthur can respect that, in his own way, and stabs his knife into the boy’s heart and then into his throat, just to make sure he dies quickly.

The cannon sounds overhead before Arthur’s even done pulling the knife out of the boy’s jugular.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters as he peels the jacket off of the boy’s shoulders, and he’s not referring to the fact that he’s stealing a corpse’s coat.

It’s the first time he’s actually felt anything but satisfaction after making a kill.

And although that satisfaction is still there, and although it did get rid of the restlessness that drove him out of the tunnels, as he slinks back toward the tunnels, he can’t help but feel a tiny tinge of regret.

======

Eames is not asleep when Arthur sneaks out. He suspects it, knows that Arthur’s going to make trouble or get himself killed, and Eames can’t exactly let that happen now that there’s a chance of two people getting out alive.

He doesn’t necessarily care about Arthur, but he does care about Arthur’s opportunity to live, as well as his own.

As soon as Arthur’s footsteps can no longer be heard from the compartment, Eames gets up and cautiously follows him out. He can see Arthur’s retreating form heading in the opposite direction from the Cornucopia, and Eames silently praises his ability to make good decisions even while in the middle of a bad one.

Eames creeps quietly along the side of buildings, ducking into doors and openings every time he thinks Arthur’s going to look over his shoulder. Eventually, Arthur sees something. His prey, Eames assumes, and quickly crosses to see from the other side of the street as Arthur’s distracted.

He watches the interaction at a safe distance, flinching harshly as Arthur makes his bloody kill and loots the jacket off the boy. He sighs heavily and thinks it’s just another person down, somebody they don’t have to worry about. He hopes this satisfies Arthur enough that he won’t have to leave again until they absolutely have to.

It’s just one kill, Eames convinces himself. Nobody got hurt.

He doesn’t remark upon the irony of his own thoughts.

He waits until Arthur has walked a considerable amount back toward the tunnels before he starts to follow again. He keeps his distance, not worrying too much about covering his back, and that’s his horrible mistake.

He topples over onto the sidewalk before he can feel the jolt in his leg, deep and horrendously painful. He lets out a noise of surprise, but otherwise keeps quiet. He doesn’t know what to do, and when he looks back, he can see a hunting knife lodged into the back of his thigh.

He tries to crawl forward in an attempt to save himself, but he can hear light footsteps behind him, approaching quickly, presumably to finish him off.

Eames doesn’t have the energy to look back, but he knows his attacker is close, so even though the wound is in his leg, he plays dead, hoping that they’re stupid enough not to notice the lack of a cannon.

“So,” a girl’s voice comes from behind him, “You’re the one Arthur abandoned us for.”

Eames lies there, hoping to at least seem like he’s already dying.

“I don’t think that’s very fair, that he killed my friend. The three of us could have been so great together, at least until the final three,” she says, laughing a little bit maniacally. “But alas, he chose you, and so I’m going to have to repay him in full.”

Eames knows she’s going to kill him. He can feel her advancing on him, and he has no idea what he’s going to do if he wants to survive. It’s not looking good for him right now.

In a last ditch effort to save himself, he kick out his good leg. Even he is surprised to find it made contact, followed by a grunt and a noise of pain, and then silence. He dares to look behind himself and sees the girl lying face down, hands at her sides as if to catch her own fall, and blood streaming down the pavement.

She’s only unconscious, and Eames guesses that he doesn’t have long until she wakes up. He can’t kill her, because in his frustration with Arthur, he hadn’t brought weapons, and the knife in his leg is going to stay there until somebody else can deal with it. He isn’t going to strangle her, because even though he has killed people, knows what it’s like, he refuses to feel somebody’s life draining out of them under his own hands.

So he crawls away as quickly as he can, which, admittedly, isn’t very fast, and by the time he can see the entrance to the tunnel, he feels like his stomach is going to come up through his mouth. The pain in his leg is worse than any physical thing he’s ever felt before, and he would give up his soul for it to go away. He makes it to the top of the stairs and desperately calls out, “Arthur!”

Arthur appears almost immediately, the panic on his face instantly fading into astonishment. “Eames?”

Eames cannot say anything further, just reaches out his hand in a plea, and passes out.

======

Arthur can’t help the adrenaline that’s rushing through his veins as he walks back toward the tunnels. He knows that in the morning, when Eames wakes up and he has to explain himself, there will probably be consequences for what he just did.

But Arthur can’t really bring himself to care. If that kill means that Arthur and Eames can get out of the arena sooner rather than later, then it was worth it, despite the fact that Arthur’s mind is now flooded with questions about the boy he just killed; who were his parents? Did he have any siblings, a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend, he adds to the end of the thought, startled the second he consciously thinks it, because technically homosexuality is illegal in Panem, so how could he have a boyfriend? Of course, like almost all laws in Panem, the homosexuality one can be broken if you have enough money, but no one participating in the Games does, do they?

He blocks these thoughts out as best as he can, telling himself that this is just life, just a game. Nothing more.

Arthur quietly steals back into the tunnels, planning on just going back to sleep and saving whatever argument he and Eames are bound to have for the morning, but he stops short when he realizes that Eames - Eames is gone.

“Eames!” Arthur calls out, panicked. “Eames!”

He doesn’t get a response, which only makes him panic more. He looks around the compartment, and it doesn’t help ease his nerves when he spots Eames’s knives still lying next to his bed. Despite whatever reservations Arthur might have about Eames’s take on the Games, he knows for a fact that Eames wouldn’t be stupid enough to go out into the arena unarmed.

“Fuck. Fuck,” Arthur mutters to himself, pacing around the station. He shouldn’t have left Eames alone when he was asleep, what was he fucking thinking. He literally left Eames defenseless, anyone could’ve come and quickly finished him off, thrown his body somewhere Arthur hasn’t found yet.

Arthur goes back through the last couple of minutes in his mind and tries to remember if he heard a cannon before or after he made his own kill, and, confirming that he didn’t, gives a sigh of relief. Eames could be hurt, he could be badly hurt, but at least he’s not dead.

Arthur’s just beginning to develop a plan as to how in hell he’s going to actually find Eames when he hears his name being called from aboveground.

He rushes up the stairs, calling out Eames’s name. He doesn’t hear a reply, but he doesn’t need one. Eames is right at the top of the stairs, a knife deeply embedded in his right leg. Arthur feels a chill run through him, because he recognizes the knife - it’s Tulle’s. Eames was attacked by Tulle.

There’s blood still steadily dripping from the wound, and Arthur can’t help the shocked expression that takes over his face. Eames reaches an arm out toward Arthur, and then passes out.

This leaves Arthur with the predicament of how he is going to get Eames down to the tunnels. Arthur is strong, sure, but Eames is much heavier than him, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to carry him back down. In the end, Arthur regretfully leaves Eames lying on the street for a quick second as he runs down to get the bandages and both canteens, each about halfway filled with water.

He bounds back up the steps and is relieved to find that Eames is still in the same passed out state that he was in before.

He leans over Eames’s leg and says, “I’m sorry, Eames, this is going to hurt.” He looks carefully at the way the knife is embedded in Eames’s skin and slowly pulls it out, trying his hardest to cause the least amount of pain possible.

He manages to get the knife out without anything complicating matters more, and throws it across the street, not wanting to hold the knife that hurt his partner. He’s still contemplating ways he could get Eames down the stairs while the other boy is passed out, but it turns out not to be an issue. Eames blinks blearily a couple of times, and then groans in pain. Arthur feels a sympathetic pang in his stomach.

“Eames, I’m sorry, I’m going to wrap a bandage around your leg, okay, and then do you think you can try and get down the stairs?” Arthur says in a rush of words.

Eames is silent for a second and then manages to say, “I don’t think so.” Arthur wants to be angry, but he knows he’s in no position to be. He’ll just have to think of something else while he fixes Eames’s wound up.

He takes the roll of bandage and unravels it to a length he thinks will be able to wrap around Eames’s thigh three times - which, unfortunately, is most of the bandage. He rips it off with his teeth and carefully stretches it around Eames’s leg. Eames does his best to feebly lift his thigh off of the ground so Arthur has better access. Once Arthur’s finished, he can’t do anything but trust gravity and the material to keep the bandage in place.

“Eames?” Arthur says, and gets a grunt in response. “I’m not going to ask you to stand or anything, but, uh, we can’t exactly stay here, so ….” he trails off, looking at Eames, who gives a small nod in acknowledgement.

Arthur isn’t exactly sure where to go from here. “Um, do you think you could maybe manage to crawl into one of those buildings? I don’t think stairs are a good choice for you right now, we can attempt those later, but do you think you’d be able to make it to that apartment?”

Eames pauses again, and then gives a hesitant nod. “I think so, but it might take a while,” he says.

“Alright,” Arthur says. “Alright, well, that’s better than nothing, take as long as you need. Seriously, Eames, don’t feel rushed, I have a knife on me if anyone decides to attack us so don’t worry. Just try and get to that apartment building, and then you can rest.”

Arthur is well aware that he’s babbling. Arthur is also aware of the fact that there is a high probability that all of Panem is currently listening to him babble - but for some reason, Arthur can’t bring himself to care. All he can think about is getting Eames safe and away from any possible threats.

Eames continues to slowly but surely crawl toward the apartment building’s lobby, Arthur babbling apologies and other nonsense the entire time and trying not to think about how ridiculous the two of them must look.

And then finally, finally, they reach the lobby. Eames collapses almost immediately. “Eames, God, I am so sorry,” Arthur says. “I hate to ask more of you, I am so sorry, but do you think you can turn over onto your back? The bandages should keep a good amount of the blood from seeping, and I think you’d be more comfortable on your back, and it’s easier to get water to you, and - ”

“Arthur!” Eames says sharply.

Arthur pauses, surprised to hear Eames’s voice so strong. “Yeah?” he asks, hoping his relief isn’t completely evident in his voice.

“Be a dear and stop talking?” Eames asks. From anyone else, it would sound rude and condescending and would only make Arthur angry, but when Eames says it, Arthur can only sigh and say, “Yeah, okay.”

He silently hands Eames the canteen and Eames takes it gratefully, drinking most of what’s remaining.

Arthur sits down next to Eames, cross-legged, and is suddenly hit with an idea. He gets up quickly and says, “I’m going to go back to the tunnels quickly, pick up some food and such so if we have to stay here for a while we’re prepared, alright?”

Eames gives a weak nod of his head, and Arthur sprints away and down the stairs to the tunnels. He picks up Eames’s knives, the last two cans of food, and, making a decision in the moment, the jacket he had just lifted from the boy he killed.

He runs back toward the apartment building he left Eames in with the same speed and holds the jacket out toward Eames. “Here, take this. You can use it as a pillow or something.”

Eames, to Arthur’s surprise, shakes his head.

“Eames, come on,” Arthur insists. “Take the jacket.”

“I’m not taking some dead guy’s jacket, Arthur,” Eames grits out, surprising force in his voice.

Arthur sighs. “Look, Eames, I know you think it’s terrible or whatever, but we are in an environment where - ” Arthur pauses. “Wait. Wait, how did you know this jacket belonged to a dead guy?” Arthur’s gaze is now suspicious as it rests on Eames.

Eames turns away, not answering. “Eames!” Arthur exclaims, suddenly having a revelation. “Did you get hurt following me?”

Eames gives a grunt, still not looking at Arthur.

“You bastard!” Arthur says. “I can’t believe you! I am perfectly capable of watching my back, I certainly don’t need you to watch it for me.”

“Yeah? Tell me, Arthur, what if it had gone the other way? What if you had been the one dead after tonight?” Eames says.

Arthur takes a deep breath in to calm himself down. “Look, Eames, I appreciate the concern, but I’ve been trained to do this since I was seven. It’s the only thing I know how to do, and it’s a skill set i can use here, so let me use it. And the only way we’re going to get out of here, and I - I don’t want things I do to be the reason you get hurt,” Arthur ends awkwardly, glancing away. God, he can’t believe he just said that for all of fucking Panem to hear.

Arthur can feel Eames’s looking at him, and can’t help blushing. Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever blushed before in his life. It’s... disconcerting, to say the least.

When Arthur looks back at Eames after a few seconds, he’s surprised to see that Eames’s gaze isn’t harsh, or judgmental. He looks almost like he’s confused by Arthur, like he’s trying to figure him out.

Eames clears his throat. “I’ll admit that maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing in the world to chase after you with no weapons on hand,” he says, and Arthur’s about to speak when Eames continues, “but you should’ve told me that you were leaving,” he says, voice trying for stern but too laced with pain to land there.

“I know. I won’t do it again,” Arthur says. “But - I refuse to stay here for all hours of the day.”

Eames nods his head, and then opens his mouth, closing it before he can say anything.

“What?” Arthur asks.

Eames hesitates before sighing and saying, “Give me the damn jacket, my head hurts.”

Arthur can’t help the small smile that forms on his face, but Eames doesn’t seem to mind.

======

Eames falls asleep in the lobby to the apartment building and wakes elsewhere - light is streaming in through the windows to his left and his neck is positioned painfully on the jacket. Arthur is nowhere to be seen, but Eames feels like a cannon would have woken him. He sits up and takes in his surroundings.

He’s presumably in the same apartment building. The room he’s in has three doors, and from what he can see out of the window, he’s not very far up, probably only about three stories. Half the floor is covered in a pale carpet, surprisingly clean, and the other has hardwood planks, the luxury of which Eames had not discovered properly until going to the Capitol. The walls are the color of milky coffee, and he decides that it’s surprisingly warm and homey despite the lack of furniture. He considers the fact that he’s dreaming, but dismisses it immediately when he looks down and sees the blood soaked bandage wrapped around his leg.

He unwraps it carefully, taking care not to move his leg too much, and sees that it’s stopped bleeding. It needs to be cleaned, but it’s not too bad considering the injury itself. He tries to inch himself up so that he can lean against the wall, but he pulls his leg in the process and groans in pain.

Arthur bursts in through one of the doors, worry on his face, and hurriedly kneels down beside Eames.

“Are you alright? What happened?”

Eames laughs a bit, hiding the pain as much as possible. “Yeah, just stretched it a bit.” He motions toward the door hanging open with his head. “What’s in there?”

Arthur’s eyes light up. “I was just enjoying the luxury of a proper toilet. It’s so old fashioned, but it’s kind of cool.”

Eames shakes his head in a way that he hopes conveys a form a despair. “You are absolutely ridiculous,” he says, more than a little bit exasperated. Arthur gives a small laugh, but Eames stops. “Does that mean there’s running water?”

Arthur shakes his head. “There’s no water at all. You can still use the drains, but you have to pour in some water from the canteens afterward.”

“So does that mean we don’t have any water?” Eames asks, disappointed.

Arthur shakes his head. “No, I did a run to the fountain once.”

Eames decides it’s best not to fight, especially not with what just happened, so he just sighs and looks down at his leg. “I think we need to wash off the blood. It feels kind of stiff.”

Arthur opens his mouth to say something, but closes it with a click. “Alright, let’s get you into the bathroom.” He leans forward and puts his arm around Eames shoulders, helping him up slowly so as not to injure him. Eames leans into Arthur’s touch, just enough to stabilize himself, and then hops his way to the bathroom.

Arthur opens the door and guides Eames to the large tub on the far side of the room.

Eames can sense Arthur hesitating and wonders how it’s possible that a killer trained for years on end can be hesitant about something like this.

“You’re going to need to take off your pants,” Arthur finally says, and Eames decides to ignore the growing flush on Arthur’s neck for the sake of his dignity and takes them off quickly. He’s still wearing underwear, but it’s bloodsoaked. Eames thinks that he’ll have to deal with that in private.

Arthur guides him into the tub so that he’s kneeling, facing the wall, and he can feel Arthur’s hands jerkily moving across the back of his legs. It gets Eames thinking a bit, about the way Arthur has acted toward him since the beginning of the Games. Like before, when he was blushing about asking him to take off his pants, and just sticking with him in general after all of this. Now that he thinks about it, why did Arthur choose him in the first place? The Career partner he could have had would have been stronger and smarter, despite what Arthur had said. He wouldn’t have been a Career if he didn’t have what it took. And yet, Arthur chose Eames.

Does Arthur like him?

Eames ponders this as Arthur rubs the back of his right leg with water, thumbing around the deep gash carefully. His hands are soft, if not a little jittery, and Eames tries to relax but finds that he can’t with this new knowledge.

Now that he comes to think of it, he doesn’t even know if Arthur knows that he likes Eames. It’s an interesting thought, but he’s not sure what to do with that. Is it even legal? He doesn’t think so, but they would probably let it go for somebody like a Victor, somebody who had enough money.

Eames doesn’t even know why he’s considering this. He doesn’t have feelings for Arthur. He doesn’t. Even if he did, he wouldn’t act upon them in the arena. It would be too dangerous, and with the risk of both losing sponsors and losing Arthur, it just isn’t a good idea. Just like Greir said, you shouldn’t get involved with someone who could die at any moment.

Eames is surprised that he’s gotten this far, really.

After Arthur declares that he’s done, he helps Eames stand and step out of the tub from behind. Arthur fetches the jacket from somewhere that Eames can’t see and rubs the back of his leg delicately. It stings a bit, but he doesn’t say so. Arthur proceeds to rewrap the bandage around his leg, and then helps him back into his pants.

“Thanks,” Eames says, trying to convey everything he’s feeling into just that word. It doesn’t seem to work very well, as Arthur just nods and puts an arm under his shoulders again helping him back into the main room.

Eames can see the sun setting in between buildings out the window and he looks over to Arthur. “How long was I out?”

Arthur considers. “For most of the afternoon, probably. You woke up at one point and started talking, but I don’t really think that counts.”

Eames grimaces. “Did I say anything embarrassing?”

Arthur shakes his head. “It was pretty much unintelligible.” He pauses briefly. “I didn’t really know that anybody actually did that.”

Eames tilts his head. “What do you mean? How could you not know that people talk in their sleep?”

Arthur shrugs. “I’ve never been around anybody when they were sleeping before. Anyone outside my family, at least, and none of them do it.”

Eames furrows his brow, but realizes that it makes sense when he considers it. “Friends would be kind of hard to maintain while you’re training to kill, I suppose.”

“It’s not even that, really. I had friends, but my parents were strict, so they were never allowed at our house and I was never allowed at theirs. Go to school, come home, practice what I learned that day, sleep, repeat the next day. It’s what you have to do if you want to be in the Games.”

Eames twists his mouth. “Why did you want to be a tribute anyway?”

“Everyone wants to be one,” he responds after a second, furrowing his brow. “It’s not something you consciously choose for yourself, not really. From an early age I was told it’s the one thing you can do that can make you significant. I mean, think about it - who do we study in our history textbooks? The regular citizens, or the Victors?”

There’s a pause, but Arthur looks like he’s debating saying something, so Eames lets him think it over. He doesn’t have to wait long before Arthur adds, “The person I looked up to most was my sister, and she wanted to be a tribute, so I guess it’s only natural that I did, too. And when she was killed - when she was killed, I wanted it more than I ever had before, because her death tarnished my family’s name, and I had to make it right again. And - and also, because maybe then I could be worth something not only to future students, but to my family, too.”

This is something that Eames can understand. They had a volunteer in his district a few years back and nobody knew why he did it until his interview.

“I have to help my family. My brother’s death did nothing to help my mother’s health, but if I win, I can bring her gold and medicine and proper food. We’ll be happy, like so few people in my district can be these days.”

He died at the Cornucopia.

Eames is thinking about this when Arthur sits down next to him. Their arms are touching, and for some reason, that’s the only thing Eames can focus on. Neither of them say anything, and Eames can feel Arthur slumped against him. When he looks over, Arthur is out cold, and Eames can only guess why he moved this close to him so he could sleep.

He takes a large breath. This is going to be a lot more difficult than he had first thought.

======

When Arthur blinks awake, it’s to the discovery that, sometime while he was asleep, his head had fallen onto Eames’s shoulder, and Eames’s head is lying on top of his. He feels a blush creeping up his neck - and what the hell is going on lately, what’s all this blushing - and quickly jerks his head away. He feels bad almost instantly when Eames’s eyes fly open.

“Is anything wrong?” Eames asks, an almost frantic look in his eyes.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” Arthur says, watching relief wash over Eames’s expression. “Sorry I woke you.”

“Not a problem, darling,” Eames says absently. “Don’t worry about it, it’s probably a good thing you woke me up, anyways.”

Arthur pauses, and reviews what Eames just said to make sure that he’s not imagining the fact that Eames just called him darling.

“Oh, yeah, uh, we need to do - stuff,” Arthur says, and he can feel his skin heating up again, what the fucking fuck. “Right. Uh, food. Right?”

Eames is looking at him as if he’s grown another head. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Arthur, are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

“Yeah, nothing’s wrong, don’t worry about me, I’m going to go get some food,” Arthur says, stumbling over his words. He rushes out of the apartment they’re staying in, closing the door with a slam that he regrets instantly and he runs down the stairs until he’s back in the lobby, he puts his hands on his knees, catching his breath for a second.

“What the hell was that?” he angrily asks himself, and then recognizes that he’s talking to himself and feels even stupider than before. He begins walking toward the doors, and is about halfway there when he realizes that he doesn’t have any weapons on him. Despite how awkward he feels, it would definitely not be a smart move to go outside unarmed. He walks back toward the stairs and begins to walk up slowly.

God, this is so embarrassing, he thinks, trying not to remind himself of the fact that everything’s being broadcasted to all of Panem. He seems to lose track of that fact whenever he’s with Eames, annoyingly enough, because Eames also seems to have this way of making Arthur actually talk about what he’s thinking rather than bullshitting his thoughts. Arthur almost flinches at the thought of his dad watching the conversation he’d had last night.

And that darling shit, Arthur thinks, because really, what the hell? The pet comment he could tolerate, if just barely, because at least he knew where Eames was coming from when he said that. But darling... he remembers how Mal used to call Dom her darling all the time, and so he supposes he’s just always assumed the word has romantic connotations. But what does he know, maybe that’s just something they do in the non-Academy districts?

Arthur looks at the door to the apartment where he and Eames are staying with trepadation, and suddenly isn’t sure he’d be relieved if that were the case.

======

Darling? Did I just call him darling?

Eames wants to pace, he wants to get up and move, but every time he tries to stand, pain shoots through his body and he has to sit back down. He’s so anxious, and he knows it’s going to be hard waiting for Arthur to come back without any knowledge of if he’s alright or not. What if the cannon goes off? What will he do then? He won’t have any food and he’ll run out of water soon enough, and it’s not like he can go and get some, what with his leg.

He feels sick to his stomach, sitting there on the floor and not being able to do anything but wait. What’s probably just a few minutes feels like years, Eames’s thoughts going to every single place they possibly can, from the Games to Arthur to Greir, even to Silver, though her death seems like it was millions of years ago.

He’s about to try and stand again when the door opens and he nearly has a fucking heart attack.

He is more than relieved when he looks and sees that it’s just Arthur, seemingly unharmed. Eames knows that even though it seems like it, Arthur could not have been gone long enough to have gone and gotten food, so he turns his head questioningly. “What’s wrong?”

“Forgot my knives,” Arthur says, looking down at the floor and twisting his mouth. “Uh, you alright?”

Eames furrows his brow. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

Arthur doesn’t answer right away. He avoids Eames’s curious gaze, walking to the opposite corner of the room and picking up his sheath and its contents. He packs it away carefully and slowly, facing the wall, not saying anything.

“I just... I don’t know, sorry. I’m just a bit out of it, I guess,” Arthur says, looking out the window briefly.

Eames shifts in an attempt to stand, and grunts loudly. “Help me up, will you?”

Arthur hesitates and then walks over to Eames briskly, reaching for his hand and putting an arm around his shoulder, helping him to his feet.

“Arthur,” Eames says, and then pauses.

“Yeah?” Arthur says, looking nervous.

“Just... be careful, will you?” Eames asks, putting his hands on Arthur’s shoulders and giving him a half smile.

Arthur just stares at him with wide eyes for a moment before nodding and putting his right hand on top of Eames’s, returning the smile. “Yeah, I’ll try my hardest.”

Eames nods, satisfied, and is about to take his hands off of Arthur’s shoulders when he pauses and looks at Arthur’s mouth, suddenly taken by the overwhelming urge to kiss him.

So he does.

He wraps one hand around the back of Arthur’s neck and presses their lips together, moving them to fit and mold as best as he can. It’s not perfect, but he’s pretty sure that Arthur has never kissed anyone else in his life, so he tries to make it as simple as he can, not forcing him to do what he might not want to.

It doesn’t really matter though, because Arthur is all ferocity as he pushes into Eames’s mouth with his tongue, gripping the back of his head and his neck with all he has to give. Eames is almost surprised, and at the same time not, because this is Arthur he’s kissing. So he just makes the most of it, framing Arthur’s face with his hand and caressing Arthur’s cheekbone with his thumb.

When Eames remembers that they are probably currently on national television, he breaks apart and steadies himself against Arthur. Arthur takes a deep breath with his eyes closed, and Eames can’t help but stare at his lips, swollen and red. He realizes then just how beautiful Arthur really is.

Arthur twitches a bit when he blinks his eyes open, but smiles, wide-eyed.

“Be careful,” Eames reiterates, and Arthur nods, setting off with a determination that hadn’t been there before. Eames sits back down and thinks.

They better win this fucking competition.

======

Arthur’s lips feel... weird.

He can’t think of a better way to describe it, but then again, more than half of his brain is still hung up on the way his lips felt when Eames’s lips were against them. Because, God - Arthur couldn’t remember ever feeling anything that could compete with that feeling.

He can’t remember ever wanting to kiss anyone before, because the only person he’s ever cared for outside of himself is Savera, and he obviously doesn’t think of her in that way. Which, of course, begs the question - does he think about Eames in that way?

Arthur thinks about the way Eames had smiled at him on the roof and how he let Eames live even when he had an opportunity to kill him. Arthur thinks about how Eames let him live when Eames had killed Saffra and how Arthur never second guessed his decision to partner up with Eames, not once. He thinks about the pure, absolute panic he had felt when he thought Eames was dead, panic that surpassed fear of a dead ally. Arthur thinks of how Eames regards him, with a mixture of superiority and yet, unbelievably, respect. He thinks about how he is around Eames - less selfish and less impulsive, but not any less him.

Lastly, he thinks of the way his lips still feel from what had happened just a few minutes ago, and Arthur realizes that any hope of him not thinking of Eames in that way was gone the second they became partners. He can’t help the smile that appears on his face, because, unless he’s mistaken, kissing someone is something that generally happens when both people feel the same way about each other, and the idea of Eames feeling the same way about Arthur that Arthur feels about Eames is almost too great to bear.

Of course, that’s when the realization hits that he’s just kissed a guy - and with tongue, no less - on national fucking television hits.

Shit, he thinks, smile slipping off his face as quickly as it had appeared. Shit, shit, fucking shit.

He’d come to the Games to try and right his family name, and now what had he done? Even if he did win, his parents would have to deal with the shame of their only son being a faggot, something no one would say but everyone would think. He’d probably never be able to go anywhere without people staring and whispering every time he passed - he’d seen it happen to Ross Edenthaw a couple of years back when he had come home a Victor after being in an alliance with a female tribute from District 7, and Ross had just helped her. There had been no romance between the two of them, and yet people shamed him for just helping someone from a poorer, non-Academy district.

This is worse than killing Damask so that he could partner up with Eames, this is worse than staying in those tunnels for two goddamned days doing absolutely nothing, this is even worse than Savera’s shame of being killed within the first two days - he had not only expressed romantic interest in someone from a poorer district, but it was someone who was the same gender as him on top of that. How could he ever look his father or mother in the eye again knowing that they had seen this, something that would be shameful even in secret but was ten times worse when it was out in the open like this? If his parents weren’t in the process of disowning him right this very second, he would be surprised.

God, he’s really fucked things up this time.

His concentration is mostly shot to shit by this point, between the kiss and his self-loathing, but Arthur knows he has to go and get food, because he and Eames really are running low, and obviously Eames can’t go out and get some for them, not with his leg still injured.

Arthur tries to clear his mind as much as possible, because he knows at this point the only way he’s going to be able to find food is by managing to pilfer from Tulle’s stash back at the Cornucopia. Be careful, Eames had said to him, Arthur’s face encased in between Eames’s hands, and Arthur would have to try, but there was nothing careful about venturing back to the Cornucopia.

A cannon goes off in the distance, almost like an omen.

Arthur treads carefully toward the Cornucopia, staying in the shadows of the buildings. He’s of course hoping that Tulle won’t be there when he finally arrives at Times Square, but in his mind he goes over twenty different possible ways this could play out.

He has absolutely no qualms killing Tulle if it’s necessary.

Finally, he finds himself at the edge of Times Square. Arthur doesn’t spot Tulle right away, but that doesn’t mean she’s not hiding out in the toy store. He sticks to the periphery of the square, and makes a quick dash to the entrance of the toy store when he’s sure the coast is clear. It looks like no one is inside, but Arthur is nothing if not prepared, so he takes out two knives, one for each hand, and treads extra lightly, so that he’ll be able to hear anyone who approaches him from behind.

Arthur’s luck finally seems to be turning, because he manages to get to the place where they had originally stored all of the food without bumping into anyone. He takes a few apples, some cans of soup and another can with its label torn off, hoping it’s something good. He zips his backpack and quickly pads his way out of the toy store and back into the square. He’s planning to just run for the streets and get out of here as soon as he possibly can, but then he spots the screen out of the corner of his eye, the one where all the dead tributes are pictured.

He knows that the smartest thing would be to ignore it and just get out, but he can’t help it. Arthur was trained to know everything, after all.

Only four photos are still lit up - his, Eames’s, Tulle’s and the girl from District 4, who Arthur is pretty sure is named Jordan. He wonders if Tulle has teamed up with Jordan or not. They’re obviously from different districts, but Arthur could see Tulle wanting to be alone.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a knife whizzing straight past his right ear.

He turns around quickly, spotting Tulle and Jordan both running at him, Tulle with a sharp knife brandished and Jordan with a spear by her side. Well, he supposes that solves the “Are they teamed up or not?” mystery.

A spike of panic ricochets through his spine, and he wants to stay there and take them, but he also knows, somehow, that he’d lose. Maybe it’s the prospect of two against one, or maybe it’s just the lack of knowledge about Jordan’s fighting style, but he knows his best option is to retreat, and retreat quickly.

The only issue is that both knives and spears are long distance weapons.

Fuck it, Arthur thinks, and takes off down a street to his right. He doesn’t know where he’s going, only that he keeps making turns but just managing to stay away from making a circle. Eventually, he’s pretty sure he’s lost them, because he’s pretty sure he’s lost himself, as well. He ducks into the doorway of a building and waits for one minute, two minutes, three, and when he hears nothing, he finally comes out and starts at a walk again, breath coming out in pants. Now all he has to do is find his way back to Eames.

\--

Although it takes the good part of an hour, Arthur does eventually find his way back to the apartment he and Eames have been staying in. He slowly climbs up the stairs, not sure whether he’s dreading or anticipating seeing Eames again after what happened this morning.

He opens the door and walks in. Eames is in the corner, looking out the window. He turns when he hears Arthur walk in, a smile lighting up his face. “Arthur!” he exclaims, and manages to get up, even if it’s a bit unsteady.

Eames approaches him and Arthur hurriedly pulls the backpack off and shoves it in front of him. “I got food,” Arthur says, quickly. “Nearly got myself killed getting it, but here.”

Eames barely manages to grab the backpack before a concerned look crosses over his face. “What happened?” he asks.

“Tulle teamed up with the girl from District 4, and I was lucky enough to get away, but it was close,” Arthur says, running a hand through his hair. “I was cocky. I could’ve gotten out easily but I couldn’t help myself, I checked the screen to see who was left.”

Eames rolls his eyes. “Of course you did. At least you managed to make it out alive, otherwise I would’ve slowly starved to death, and I don’t think that’s very good for the ratings,” Eames says with a smile, and Arthur can’t help the chuckle that escapes his mouth.

Before Eames can say - or do - anything else, Arthur takes a deep breath and says, “I need to kill her.”

A shocked look flashes over Eames’s face. “Wait, what? Kill who?”

“Jordan. The District 4 girl,” Arthur says.

“Arthur - ”

“Look, I know you have a really passive view of the games, but we’re the last four left, and Tulle’s sure as hell not going to kill her, and neither are you, with your leg. And I - I,” Arthur pauses here, takes another breath, and continues. “It was the girl from District 4 that killed my sister. I can’t let that stand.”

Eames’s face pinches up in a quick second, and he says, “No, Arthur, you can’t. It’s not the same girl who killed your sister, she probably never even knew the girl who killed your sister - ”

“Fine, if you don’t want me to do it for that reason, then at least let me because of the practical one. If I don’t kill her, she and Tulle will come after us, and your leg still needs time to heal, and after that, that - thing we did this morning, you can bet your ass we’re not going to get any more sponsors, so I have to go do this so you can fucking live, Eames, alright?” Arthur says, and he didn’t mean to be shouting, but somehow he is, his voice having steadily risen throughout the course of his monologue. He can feel his eyes starting to dampen, but he doesn’t cry, Arthur doesn’t fucking cry, so he squeezes his eyes shut and balls his fists and takes a few deep breaths and he doesn’t cry.

When he opens his eyes again, Eames is looking at him with a peculiar expression on his face. “Arthur?” he asks, quietly. “Are you okay?”

Arthur can’t even answer. “Arthur?” Eames asks again, and Arthur inhales shakily before shaking his head. “No, I - I’m not okay, no. Because - because, I really fucking like you Eames, but - you’re a guy. And I’m a guy. And now all of Panem knows that I’m a, a faggot, and my parents - oh, God, Eames, my parents. I tried so hard to be a tribute so I could right our family name after what happened with Savera, and now I’ve just made it worse, and I just have to kill the District 4 girl, I have to, I think I’m just below Tulle in the kill count, but I can - I can at least get some of my pride back if I can kill her partner, especially since it’s avenging my sister’s death and - ”

Eames cuts Arthur off with a kiss, dropping the backpack with the food Arthur had just collected to the ground. Arthur whimpers into the kiss, his hands coming up and threading into Eames’s hair. Eames pulls away after a few seconds, keeping Arthur’s face framed in between his hands as he does so, much like he had this morning. “Arthur,” he says, slowly, deliberately, not letting Arthur look away. “There’s nothing wrong with you liking me.”

“Yes there is,” Arthur says. “Yes there is, Eames, it’s not right, everyone says so, it’s in our fucking laws - ”

“Fuck the laws!” Eames exclaims, finally taking his hands off of Arthur’s face. “Fuck everyone, fuck fucking Panem!”

“Eames!” Arthur exclaims, seemingly horrified.

“It’s true,” Eames says quietly, fervently. “Seriously, fuck them all. I like you and you like me. You’ve saved my ass probably more than once and I would do the same for you. We’re partners, Arthur, and I don’t care if we’re the same gender, and you shouldn’t either.”

“I wish I could, Eames,” Arthur says, his voice almost a whisper. “I’ve - I’ve never felt anything even leaning toward affection to anyone outside of my family, and I really like you, but I - I shouldn’t. Even if you don’t care, my parents will, everyone who I ever knew will. I am letting down my family every second I spend with you, I can almost feel their disappointment from here. I can’t do this, Eames, I can’t!”

“You can,” Eames insists quietly, his arms wrapped around Arthur’s waist. “You can. If we die here, then we die knowing that we had each other, and if we win, no one will dare question you. No one ever does. I like you and you like me and nothing else matters.”

Arthur isn’t sure he believes what Eames is saying, but he kisses back when Eames leans toward him, throwing all caution to the wind.

And in that moment, he can see how maybe, just maybe, Eames could be right.

======

Eames doesn’t quite know what to think of anything anymore. He’s sitting against the wall in a way that allows him to see out the window without straining too much, a position he’s taken a liking to since Arthur left earlier. He stares up at the clouds and the sky, and wishes that he could live in the time when this city actually existed, before Panem, before the Capitol had control over every aspect of every life. He knows this is just a recreation, because even as trashed as it is, it couldn’t have survived all the havoc that had been wreaked before they had been ‘saved’.

Eames wonders if the people living here had been as happy as he imagines they would be. He thinks they would have been, if they could see him now, with a horrible leg wound, fighting for his life against other people in a situation more or less the same as his. He thinks belatedly that Arthur could be right about the sponsors, and wonders if they even stand a chance anymore. It’s true that Arthur is a career, but so is Tulle, and the District 4 girl is probably in better condition than he is.

Eames sighs and turns his head to stare at the door. Maybe a relationship right now with a tribute from another district may not have been his best idea. But when he looks at Arthur, he can’t help but feel an ache deep in his chest and he doesn’t know what that means.

Eames wonders if Arthur will ever be truly satisfied with him, knowing that he himself is gay while Eames isn’t, or even with the fact that people won’t accept him. Eames doesn’t even know if their kisses were shown on television or not; even if they weren’t, the Capitol’s distaste for them will be obvious. That’s what Arthur’s worried about, Eames realizes, but Eames doesn’t think that Arthur understands that if they win, they will have enough money to be tastefully ignored. They will be famous enough, revered enough, that even though they’ve been in a relationship, people won’t be stupid enough to say anything about it.

Eames realizes with a start that they will have so few opportunities to see each other again after the Games are over, and that makes his chest ache in a different way, painfully so. There are so few people left that Eames actually cares about, since Silver is dead and his parents are dead and he doesn’t really have many friends, does he, since all of his waking hours were spent working. He had Emira, but now she’s dead, and the thought makes Eames tear up. Now he only has Arthur and Greir, except he doesn’t even know if he has Greir anymore because of what just happened. But he has to believe that he still has Arthur and...

Greir. Greir lives in the Capitol, but she’s still a mentor and she was a part of District 3. She lives in the Capitol.

Eames thinks that if they get out alive, then they could have a chance.

======

Arthur supposes he should feel worse about lying to Eames.

He’d left Eames alone about fifteen minutes ago with the excuse that he was going out to collect more food, so that Eames would let him go easy, without a fight. He didn’t need Eames trying to reason with him. He knows that it’s not logical.

But he also knows that he has to be the one to kill Jordan.

So he treads quietly toward the Cornucopia, javelin in hand, knives tucked into his waistband, and his coil of rope slung over his shoulder, ready to wait until he has the perfect opportunity. If it takes hours, so be it. He feels a clench in his gut - he knows that if he is gone that long, Eames is going to worry, and Arthur doesn’t even want to consider what Eames will think when the cannon goes off.

Because a cannon will go off today. Whether it be for him or Jordan, he won’t leave until he’s killed Jordan or he won’t leave at all, another casualty of the Games.

He sincerely hopes the cannon ends up being for Jordan.

Of course, he did factor Eames into his decision. Eames probably has enough food to last a week or so if he eats slowly, and his leg is actually healing quite well - he’s not in prime fighting condition, but he’s also not as vulnerable as he once was. Arthur hopes that maybe some sponsor will take pity on Eames if Arthur does die, give him some healing salve or something. If anyone deserves it, it’s Eames.

But Arthur can’t dwell on that thought for long. He needs to believe that he will kill Jordan, that he will get away with it and go back to Eames at the end of the night with only one other tribute left for them to kill. And it doesn’t matter that it’s Tulle - Arthur is confident that he and Eames can take her down.

He arrives at the edge of the Cornucopia and ducks into the doorway of a building, leaving himself a clear view into the square. He needs to be able to see when Tulle and/or Jordan leave, and where they go. If it’s both of them together, he’s not going to risk it. But if they split up...

It starts to get boring very quickly. He’s pretty sure that both of them are out, and it really hits him just how much patience this is going to require of him. No matter. He’s willing to do it.

He figures he’s been waiting for around two hours when he sees Jordan right across the square from where he is, clutching a spear in her right hand. He stands up and quickly unties the knot he had tied in the middle of his rope to keep himself occupied, tucking his knife back into his waistband. He watches as Jordan enters the toy store - I found that, he thinks bitterly, even though he knows logically that if he hadn’t, someone else would’ve - and watches as she comes back out not even a minute later. So Tulle’s out and about then. Now may be Arthur’s only chance.

He quietly steps out, javelin clutched in his hand. He takes a second to aim before he throws the javelin straight toward her. Those fews seconds where the javelin is traveling across the square are the most terrifying of Arthur’s life. If he misses... if he misses, he’s just lost his only big advantage in this fight.

He resists the urge to squeeze his eyes shut and watches as the javelin implants itself straight into the small of Jordan’s back.

She cries out, a mixture of pain and surprise, and turns to face Arthur. He wastes no time in running forward, throwing one of his knives while he’s at it. She ducks out of the way, but he had been counting on that, and the second knife he throws embeds itself into the inner elbow of her throwing arm. Her spear clatters to the ground as she reaches over with her other hand to pull out the knife and try to staunch the bleeding. She immediately makes a dive for her spear, breaking the javelin that was sticking out her back in half. It’s a shame - Arthur really did like having one.

The dive is her fatal mistake. Arthur is able to jump on top of her and grasp both her wrists in his hand before she gets a hand on her spear. He quickly shrugs the coil of rope off of his shoulder and expertly begins to bind her wrists. Once her hands are tied, he cuts the rope and then wraps a longer segment around her neck. She’s struggling, but she must know that she’s going to die here. There’s nothing she can do about it now.

He once again cuts his rope, and then leans down and whispers in her ear, “This is for Savera,” before he starts to pull. He pulls the rope against her throat as hard as he possibly can, listens to her cough and cough and try to keep breathing, all the while picturing Savera’s face as a girl from this very district killed her.

It only takes three minutes for all the life to bleed out of Jordan.

Arthur can feel her body go limp in his hold. He pulls on the rope for a few seconds more, just to make sure that she’s truly dead, and hears the cannon go off. He knows he doesn’t have long before Tulle returns, so he picks up the remainder of his rope and the knife John had dodged from a few feet away. He turns her body over, and can see the angry red and purple marks where he had pressed the rope against her throat. He leaves her like that, and runs out of the square before he gives Tulle a chance to finish him off.

When he’s a few blocks away from the apartment he and Eames are staying in, he slows down and catches his reflection in one of the cleanest storefront windows. His right arm is covered with the blood that had leaked out of the knife wound, and his pants are stained with the blood from the javelin wound. His hair is all over the place and he’s quite obviously sweating.

He looks, in other words, like hell. Feels it, too. He’s glad to have it over with, glad that he was the one who got to kill Jordan, glad that there’s only one other tribute left that he has to concern himself with killing - but his body is aching and he, he fucking misses Eames, knows he has to get back to the apartment before Eames worries himself sick thinking the cannon went off to announce Arthur’s death.

He breaks off into a sprint toward the apartment building, and doesn’t look at his reflection in any other windows as he goes.

======

Eames has never prayed before now - not before any Reaping Days, not when his mother died, never. But he’s definitely praying now.

Not in the literal sense, of course. He doesn’t believe in any god, doesn’t want to if they let this happen to a society, let it reach this point. But he prays into the ground, his chest pressed to the floor with his hands clasped over the back of his head. He prays that Arthur is okay, and that the cannon was meant for Tulle or the other girl. He would give anything for Arthur to walk back through that door right now and tell him it’s all okay and that everything is fine and that there’s no need to worry.

He stays in that position and resists the urge to whimper until finally, finally, the door creaks open and Arthur’s lithe form appears, crouching down next to Eames and touching his neck.

“Eames! Are you alright?” Arthur cries, stroking the back of his neck both gently and nervously, probably afraid that Eames has had some nervous breakdown.

“Yeah,” Eames whispers, not turning. “But I am so ridiculously angry at you.”

Arthur stops and takes away his hand, dropping into a sitting position. “I’m sorry,” he says simply.

Eames drops his hands as well, curling his fingers into the polyester. “I thought you were dead, Arthur,” he whispers, and turns to face him, his cheek rubbing against the carpet.

Arthur looks at him. “I said I was sorry. It was necessary.”

Eames sighs. “The girl from District 4?”

Arthur nods and Eames tries to calm the pulse thundering in his ears, because Arthur is not dead, he is very much alive, regardless of whether or not he is covered in blood.

“It’s not yours, is it?” Eames asks, thumbing his pant leg cautiously.

Arthur shakes his head no, and Eames sighs in relief.

“Please, please, please tell me next time, because if you don’t, I’ll... I’ll... I don’t even know what I’ll do. Have a heart attack, presumably,” Eames says, and that gets a chuckle out of Arthur, and also the return of his comforting hand on the back of Eames’s neck.

“Okay. But I don’t know if there will be a next time. The only person left is Tulle, and I think she’s going to be someone we have to take down together. Hopefully the Capitol will wait until you’re healed, but I wouldn’t count on it,” Arthur says, looking up as if he’s thinking.

Eames shifts into a sitting position, grabbing Arthur’s hand and holding it in his own. Both of their fingers are calloused, and when they rub together, they’re rough and almost prickly, and the feeling brings Eames further to a point of sadness, knowing they’ve lived such trying lives for so long. Back in the old days, Eames knows that children went to a proper school and people didn’t work until they were old enough not to have been put in the Games now - and that just frustrates him. He really means what he said before. Fuck Panem. The ridiculousness of every aspect of the entire country astounds him, and he wishes they could live in the past, where maybe they would have been able to be happy with one another without having to worry about Peacekeepers and rules and the Games. If only.

He feels, all of a sudden, exhausted. He wants to cry. Instead, he crawls toward Arthur on his hands and knees and leans forward, pressing his lips gently to Arthur’s own. Arthur responds hesitantly, moving his lips gently, and Eames wants to tell Arthur that he doesn’t have to be gentle. He pushes forward slightly, picking one hand up off the ground and sliding it to press against Arthur chest, clutching his shirt and pulling down. It has the intended effect, spurring Arthur to wrap his fingers around Eames’s back, under his arm.

“God, Arthur, I can’t wait until we’re out of here,” Eames whispers against his lips, and Arthur stills.

“But that means we won’t be together anymore,” Arthur forces out, and his eyes are closed tightly, his lips no longer responding to Eames’s.

Eames pauses and then grins. “You know my mentor, Greir?”

Arthur nods, not opening his eyes.

“She was a Victor from my district and moved to the Capitol afterwards. You never hear about it, because people never do it. They want to stay with their families and celebrate their victory, so they never even consider it. But it’s an option, Arthur. It is.”

And Arthur’s mouth slowly transforms into a shy grin, his eyes blinking open, realization coming to him. “You’re serious?”

Eames nods, a smile gracing his lips as well. “This isn’t for nothing, Arthur. I-- I care about you a lot. And, if you would be okay with it, I want to stay with you after this entire thing is over. It’s not like we won’t have enough money, if we pool our winnings together. We could live quietly in the Capitol and home and your parents and pride won’t even matter anymore.”

Arthur nods, closing his eyes again. “I would like that a lot,” he says softly.

Eames smiles sadly. “Then let’s make it through this, yes, darling?”

Arthur’s kiss in response is enough of an answer for Eames.

======

Arthur wakes up that night feeling damp.

When he looks out his window it’s still dark, and Eames is still asleep. There’s no noise, and Arthur is certain that no matter how good she is, he would’ve heard Tulle if she had tried to sneak in. Everything should be fine. Except - except when he looks down, a small layer of water is lining the floor.

And it’s not even clean, drinkable water. It’s thick and filthy, filled with things he’d rather not know about. Arthur already feels dirty, and it’s only around two inches high.

He has a quick moment of wondering how this happened, but he realizes relatively quickly that it has to be the Capitol, finally taking the Games into their own hands. Arthur had just been feeling thankful for their lack of involvement save for the partner thing, but now it seems they’ve finally made their move.

Arthur hurries over to Eames and starts shaking him frantically. “Eames!” he says. “Eames, wake up!”

Eames startles awake. “What’s wrong?” he asks, but before Arthur can respond, he seems to notice that the lower half of his body is covered in the filthy water. “Ah, shit.”

“Just grab all the weapons you can!” Arthur yells, and Eames starts to stand up.

“What about food?” he asks.

“I’m pretty sure they’re driving us to Tulle, so weapons take precedence,” Arthur says as he tucks his extra knife into his waistband and grabs his rope, which, thank God, he had put on a chair. It’s drier than he is right now.

Eames is scouring the apartment for anything they might’ve looked over, and Arthur has to suppress a smile, because his leg really is healing quite quickly. If they are about to face Tulle, he’ll need Eames as strong as he can be.

Right before they leave the apartment, Eames says, “Wait, Arthur!”

Arthur turns around, keeping his hand on the doorknob. “What?”

“If it’s flooded here, don’t you think it’s going to be flooded downstairs, too?” Eames asks.

“Check the window,” Arthur responds.

“Arthur - what? That has nothing to do with - ” Eames starts, and Arthur cuts him off.

“If there’s water up until where we are, then we jump. Otherwise, it’s an artificial flood, which means they’re filling up all the floors at the same time and we have to get out of here before we get stuck,” Arthur explains, speaking rapidly. They did something like this in the third Hunger Games, except that time it had been with lava. Arthur takes a quick moment to be thankful dirty water can’t burn you.

Eames nods, and checks the window. “Go!” he shouts to Arthur, and Arthur pulls open the door. The hallway is in the same state as their apartment, but Arthur doesn’t take the time to really notice it. He checks behind him quickly to make sure Eames is with him, and then throws open the door to the stairwell.

The building they’re in has a working elevator, and Arthur had used it the first night to get Eames up to the apartment, but Arthur doesn’t trust the elevator - too easy for the Gamemakers to manipulate, especially if they’re already flooding the building.

Arthur hears Eames’s footsteps following his as he runs down the three floors, the water managing to rise to the height of his knees in just that short time. He runs out of the building and finds the street in a similar state.

“Shit,” he says. Eames has just come out behind him, and echoes the sentiment.

“Can’t they give us a goddamn break?” Eames asks, kicking at some water.

“They wouldn’t be the Capitol if they did,” Arthur says on a sigh, and then begins leading Eames toward the Cornucopia.

“I don’t know if they’re flooding the Cornucopia, too, but I’d rather get there before it’s too deep to properly fight,” Arthur says as he picks up his pace. Eames nods and tries to keep up, but he still can’t run so Arthur is forced to slow down.

Once they reach the Cornucopia, the water is just a little bit above their waists. “I’m going to be dirty forever,” Arthur complains, and Eames shoots him a look.

“Darling, that’s the least of our worries right now,” he says, indicating the fact that the Cornucopia is indeed flooded. “Fuck, and I don’t even see Tulle.”

But then Arthur notices something. Everything is flooded... except for that goddamned toy store. Arthur is going to have the final battle of his Hunger Games in a fucking toy store.

“She’s in there,” Arthur says, indicating the building. “I don’t know where, but she’ll be in there. She has the advantage, because she knows her way around it better than even I do, but she also might not be aware of the flooding since it didn’t affect her. If we’re lucky, she’ll still be asleep.”

“Right,” Eames says. “You first then, darling?”

Arthur nods, but before he starts walking toward the toy store, he leans toward Eames and gives him a quick kiss. “I - I really hope we don’t die,” he says when he pulls back, and he can feel himself blushing. Eames’s smile is soft when he replies, “God, me neither.”

“Let’s go kick some ass,” Arthur says determinedly, and they set off for the toy store, the water still rising.

======

The electric doors, despite the fact that it’s dry on the inside of the store, are dysfunctional. Arthur tries to pry them apart with his hands, but they hold firm, and they’re running out of options with the water steadily rising.

Arthur turns to Eames, and Eames skims through their options.

“I have the crowbar,” he reminds Arthur, “but if I use it, Tulle will almost definitely hear us, and we won’t have the advantage anymore.”

Arthur sighs, and Eames looks down at the murky water, now at the bottom of his ribcage. Arthur looks torn for a minute before waving his hand. “Just do it, she’ll know we’re here soon enough anyway.”

Eames nods and retrieves the crowbar from his backpack. He expands it to its full size and pulls back to gather enough force to smash the metal against the window, shattering it into tiny shards that spray them and the water behind.

The water rushes in to the store relentlessly, and after only a few seconds, it’s level with the water outside.

Arthur curses and Eames wastes no time in grabbing his hand and wading their way to the staircase. Once on the fifth step, they’re finally clear of the water, and they begin to sprint up the stairs, as quickly as they can with water clogging their clothing and shoes.

Fear runs through Eames as he catches a glimpse of something moving from the corner of his eye. He turns, crowbar in hand, just quickly enough to shove Arthur backwards and raise the bar of metal to counter the sword coming down on his head. He catches Tulle’s eyes, seeing a glint of anger and sadism and most definitely a little bit of crazy.

Eames wrenches the crowbar forward just in time for Arthur to lunge to his side with a knife in each hand. They stand side by side for just a moment before Tulle is swinging her sword to the right, in an attempt to catch Eames off guard. Despite her forcefulness, Eames jumps back to avoid her, and his leg promptly collapses, sending him sprawling toward the ground with a groan of pain.

He can only watch as Arthur appears in front of him to catch the brunt of the sword’s weight in the vertex of his two knives, pressed together shakily. Tulle pushes him backwards, and he slowly approaches the stairs which they climbed up, and Eames can do nothing but watch in absolute terror. He tries to grab for his crowbar, but only succeeds in pushing it away further away with the tips of his fingers.

Arthur finally releases Tulle’s sword, pushing it to the ground. Tulle goes to raise it back up, but before she can get it higher than her waist, Arthur has his foot on the handle and is kicking it out of her grip. Arthur kicks it down the stairs quickly, so that Tulle can’t get her hands on it again. Eames grins and pushes himself into an upright position, leaning over to grab onto the crowbar. Arthur pauses for only a moment before advancing toward Tulle, one knife in each hand.

As Arthur takes a step forward, Tulle reaches back and pulls a dagger out of a sheath attached to her belt, and rushes forward to meet him in the middle. As the metal meets, Eames gets into a kneeling position and uses the crowbar to get to his feet. The rising water is already at the top step, and Eames has to be careful not to slip and he carefully steps forward and promptly smashes into Tulle’s side with the curved end of the bar. She hits the floor with a scream and releases the dagger, flying into the water.

Arthur grins at Eames for a brief moment before leaning down and lowering one knife to Tulle’s throat. Water laps around her face, wetting her hair and her spitting lips. She stutters out nonsense, and Eames can’t figure out if it’s supposed to be a plea for life or death.

Arthur stays there staring at her for far longer than Eames feel comfortable with, to the point where the water is almost completely engulfing her, and then finally takes pity on her. He presses the knife deep into her jugular, causing her blood to fall quickly into the murky water, blending disgustingly.

Finally, they hear the cannon go off in the distance, and the water level immediately lowers by a few inches. It continues to fall rapidly, but neither Arthur nor Eames notices, because they fall gracelessly into a gripping kiss, arms wrapped so tightly around the other that they can barely breathe.

That, plus the fact that they just won the fucking Hunger Games.

Eames hears the signal for an announcement, but ignores it for the opportunity to kiss Arthur fervently, running his fingers roughly through his coarse, unwashed hair.

The voice on the intercom speaks anyway, audibly uncomfortable. “Congratulations to Arthur Adjoy and Eames Duri! Unfortunately, we’ve come to a slight dilemma-- a quick review of the rule books shows that we are unable to allow two contestants to become Victors. Unfortunately, this means that one of you must kill the other before the Games are over. Thank you.”

Eames grows cold. His entire body is covered in goosebumps, and he can’t move. Arthur seems to have the same reaction, but he immediately detaches himself and takes a step back.

“Arthur--” Eames begins, thinking that Arthur’s probably already planning eight different ways to kill him, but Arthur just closes his eyes and shakes his head, raising a hand slightly as if telling Eames to stop. “No, please, Arthur, we can figure something out--”

And Eames’s heart stops then, because Arthur says “I don’t want to figure it out,” and pushes Eames forward, shoving him to the ground. Eames barely has time to blink in surprise before Arthur is running.

======

Arthur should’ve known it was too good to be true.

Something good finally happens in his life - he manages to win the 25th Hunger Games with Eames by his side - but then the fucking Capitol has to go and ruin everything. In this moment, Arthur hates the Capitol so violently that it almost surprises him. They took Savera from him, but apparently that wasn’t enough, because now they’re taking Eames from him, too.

Arthur knows that one of them has to die. He knows this now, should’ve always known it - no matter what had been said about this Quarter Quell bullshit, Arthur should’ve known that they wouldn’t allow more than a single Victor. But that doesn’t matter now. All that matters now is keeping Eames alive.

He can’t let Eames die. He knows that Eames won’t kill him, that Eames can’t kill him, and that means - that means --

He stops running as soon as he reaches the apartment building they had been staying in, rushing up the stairs to the room they’d been using, feeling better now that he’s put some distance between himself and the Cornucopia. The important thing is that Eames doesn’t get here in time to stop Arthur - because he will try to stop Arthur, because he’s good, too good for these games or this country, and he’s much too good for Arthur.

Of the two of them, Eames will always be the better one.

Arthur can’t even picture winning the Games now, can’t picture going back to his district, knowing that he was the one who killed Eames. He doesn’t think he’d ever be able to live with himself if he did.

He pulls his remaining rope out of his belt loop, and is relieved to find that he has just enough. He starts to tie a slip knot, his fingers stumbling a bit. When he looks down, Arthur is dismayed to noticed that his hands are shaking. He still manages to tie the knot relatively quickly and efficiently, and he climbs up on a chair in the corner of the room to loop the other end of the rope around an old pipe hanging from the ceiling. He then eases the newly formed loop over his head.

The rope is coarse and unwelcome as it rubs against his neck, and Arthur knows that there’s probably no doubt left in anyone’s mind about what he’s about to do. He wishes he could apologize to his parents, because he knows that this will tarnish their name so much more than Savera did, and he knows that his parents will hate him forever for this. He wishes he could let them know that he only wanted to help get rid of the negativity surrounding their name, that he never wanted like guys or to fall in love with Eames.

Not that it matters, he thinks. He won’t have to feel his dad’s wrath or his mom’s detached disappointment if he’s dead, after all. He won’t really have to deal with the repercussions of anything he did in the Games that would be deemed wrong by the people in his district, and that thought calms Arthur down considerably. Maybe death isn’t such a bad thing, not really. Eames will get to go home and live, like he deserves to, and Arthur won’t have to deal with his parents’ disappointment. It’s starting to sound more appealing every minute.

So then why can’t he make himself kick the chair out?

He closes his eyes and takes deep breaths, tries to calm himself down. If you want Eames to live - his breath stutters a bit here - if you want Eames to live, you have to do this. Arthur wishes he could leave a note for Eames more than anything, wishes he could tell Eames just how much he means to Arthur. But all Arthur can manage is a whispered, “Thank you,” as he finally, finally, kicks the chair out from underneath himself.

He only hopes that Eames will see it.

======

Eames doesn’t know what to think as he sits there on the ground as he watches Arthur sprint out the front door of the building. Was he trying to attack him? If so, then why would he have run away?

Only one way to find out.

Eames stands and hobbles down the stairs, still injured from the collapse he’d suffered in the middle of the fight. He eventually makes it outside and finds it in him to start jogging lightly toward the only place he can think of -- the apartment where they’d stayed. He doesn’t know where else Arthur would go, and it’s a good first place to check, at the very least.

It takes him double the time it should have to get there because of his stupid leg, but he starts running as soon as he can see the doors, despite the pain. He sprints up the stairs as fast as he can and takes a deep breath before continuing onward, to their room. He doesn’t hesitate to push the door open, but can’t breathe at what’s in front of him.

Arthur, a noose around his neck, a chair on the floor, and his legs kicking wildly underneath him. His fingers are clawing at the rope, but to no avail, and his motions are weakening.

Eames chokes out a breath, and can barely see as he runs forward, grabbing Arthur’s legs to hold him up from the rope. Eames can just barely hear a deep gasp for air as he grabs the chair from below them and sets it upright for Arthur to stand. Arthur rights himself unsteadily, and continues to breathe horribly, each exhale more a cough than a breath. Eames stands on the chair with him and holds onto his side with one hand while he messily unties the noose, his hands shaking miserably.

Finally, the knot comes free and Arthur collapses on top of Eames, toppling them both onto the floor. Both of them are crying, and Eames doesn’t even care that his leg is screaming in pain, doesn’t even care if he’s strangling Arthur more because he’s holding him so tightly. He doesn’t want to let go.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eames stutters out, his fingers digging into Arthur’s back, one shoulder painfully positioned on the floor. “Why the fuck would you-- fuck, Arthur.”

And Arthur is just crying, and Eames doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop. He sounds like broken motor, the noises he’s making nearly inhuman. Tears are streaming rapidly down his face and Eames wants to just reach out and kiss them away.

They lay there for a moment, just crying into each other. Eventually, Arthur’s breathing goes back to normal and he whispers something unintelligible into Eames’s shoulder.

“What was that, darling?” Eames asks softly, wiping the incoming tears from Arthur’s face with his fingertips.

“I- I can’t kill you, Eames,” he whispers shakily, shuddering out a breath. He doesn’t look at Eames as he says it, as if afraid of how he’ll react.

Eames stops wiping Arthur’s tears to hold on to the sides of his face firmly, urging him to look forward. “Neither of us are going to die, Arthur. I don’t care if we have to stay here for the rest of our lives. We’re not going to die.”

Arthur sobs again, his chest stuttering next to Eames’s own. “Please don’t say that, Eames. You heard them - one of us has to die, and I’m not going to let it be you. I won’t.”

“Arthur, listen to me. It’s not going to happen. I will protect you and I’m sure you’ll protect me. Nothing can come between us. I promise.” Eames is firm in his answer, his voice suddenly unwavering, and Arthur seems to take some comfort in that.

Neither of them say anything, but Arthur continues to cry, this time soundlessly, the tears falling even with Eames’s silent insistence that they stop. He almost feels uncomfortable in this situation, with strong, beautiful Arthur, losing control and attempting to kill himself. It hits him then just how much Arthur must love him, and his heart swells in his chest.

Arthur’s eyes are closed, so Eames takes advantage of this to lean forward and press his lips to Arthur’s. Arthur immediately kisses back-- with more much desperation than Eames-- like their survival depends on this kiss, depends on how much love he has and how much he wants to be happy. Eames tries to keep them under control, but Arthur just presses in further with everything he has, his body and his hands, against Eames’s neck and the back of his head. Eames can’t even be aroused by this; it just seems to make him even more upset, so he eventually stops kissing back, letting Arthur fall off and pepper kisses around his face and neck. It feels so good that Eames can’t object, just wants to know that he’s loved in a time where he feels like he has nothing.

He can’t quite get the image of Arthur with the noose around his neck and the chair on the floor out of his mind, and he knows it’s going to haunt him until his death, even if he never sees Arthur again after these last moments. The thought alone makes him cut Arthur’s attention off just so he can hug him with his face in the crook of Arthur’s neck.

He falls asleep like that, and hopes Arthur does the same. He doesn’t know what he would do if he woke up to the sight of Arthur’s dead body hanging from the noose still attached to the ceiling.

======

Arthur wakes up feeling... safe, despite the fact that he immediately realizes that he’s probably in the most dangerous situation of his entire life.

Sure, Arthur trained for nine years on how to win the Hunger Games - but when he was training, it was almost always techniques to help him defeat the other tributes. There’s virtually no training on how to fight against the Capitol.

Arthur, quite honestly, isn’t even sure if it’s possible. But here, with his body pressed against Eames’s, it’s hard to believe anything could hurt him. Eames’s heartbeat is a steady rhythm in his ear, and Arthur takes a deep breath in with his eyes still closed, burrowing closer to Eames’s chest.

If he doesn’t think about it closely, he can almost forget that he almost succeeded in hanging himself yesterday. But, no, Arthur can almost feel the rope around his neck, and he wants to cry. But the thing is - the thing is, Arthur knows that if it came down to it, if Eames is wrong and one of them does have to die, Arthur would do it again.

And that thought scares him more than anything.

Eames stirs in that moment, and Arthur feels him press a kiss to his hair.

“Morning,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“Morning,” Arthur responds, surprised to find his voice in a similar state. Although, he supposes, with all the crying they did, plus the fact that Arthur almost successfully suffocated himself yesterday, it shouldn’t really be a surprise.

Arthur doesn’t think he’ll ever become accustomed to the fact that he attempted to kill himself, that he would’ve succeeded if Eames had come even a minute later.

“I’m alive,” he says, because he needs to say it to know it’s true, because he needs the confirmation.

Eames stiffens beside him for a second, but then wraps his arms more tightly around Arthur’s waist and says, “Yes. You are.”

“But we’re still stuck in the arena.”

“Unfortunately.”

Arthur sighs and reluctantly disentangles himself from Eames’s arms, standing up and stretching a bit. He needs to get away from Eames and away from the situation, just needs to do something familiar that will let him shut off his mind for a bit.

Eames stands up unsteadily, and immediately puts his arms back around Arthur’s waist. “Eames,” Arthur says, giving an annoyed huff, but he wriggles a bit to make Eames’s grip on him more comfortable. “I’m right here, there’s no need to have your arms around me every second.”

“Darling,” Eames says seriously, waiting for Arthur to turn his head and look at him. “You almost died yesterday. I think I have permission to touch you all I want.”

“Well,” Arthur says, ducking out of Eames’s embrace. “You’ll just have to touch me while we get out of here and hope the Gamemakers haven’t taken everything out of the Cornucopia.”

Arthur takes a quick look around the apartment and manages to find a single apple that doesn’t seem ruined by the flood, and puts it in his pocket. He swears under his breath when he realizes he left both his knives at the Cornucopia in his rush to get back to the apartment.

Arthur turns back to Eames. “You wouldn’t happen to have any weapons, would you?” he asks.

“Only one knife that I never used. I left everything else behind,” Eames says apologetically.

“Goddammit,” Arthur mutters, then in a louder voice says, “Alright, give me the knife then.”

Eames seems to hesitate for a second, but hands it over, and Arthur carefully sheaths it. As soon as it’s tucked into his pants, he instantly feels a lot better about where he stands. As sick as it is, the knife feels almost as good, if not better against his skin than Eames does. After all, Arthur has been working with knives since he was seven. He’s only known Eames for around a month.

Eames opens the door, and takes Arthur’s hand as he walks out of the apartment. They walk down the stairs and out onto the street, just like that.

If possible, the city looks worse for wear than it had before. There’s more broken glass littering the streets than Arthur’s ever seen in his life, and there’s still about two inches of the murky water on the ground.

Arthur treks on. His hand is still clasped in Eames’s, but if he remembers that, he remembers everything, and just needs to be Tribute Arthur right now, Arthur who stayed at the Academy after hours studying strategy, Arthur who could pass the highest level of Academy examinations in his sleep. Arthur needs to be on auto-pilot.

Eames, in a way, seems to understand that. He doesn’t talk to Arthur, lets him be in his own headspace as they walk toward the Cornucopia. The only thing he insists on is having his hand clasped in Arthur’s the whole time, and, well, Arthur’s not going to fault him that.

The Cornucopia, when they arrive, is completely desolate. Sometime while they were sleeping, the Gamemakers had destroyed every single building lining the square, so now all that’s left is a pile of rubble. Arthur can’t even spot where the fountain must have been, once upon a time.

“Well, fuck me,” Eames says, his voice slightly awed. “They really don’t half ass things, do they?”

“Not really, no,” Arthur responds, vaguely. He wriggles his hand out of Eames’s grip and crouches on the ground, determined to find at least one thing that can be salvaged from the ruins of the Cornucopia. He’s not having much luck.

He looks up at Eames, and unsheathes the knife. “Here, take it. It might come in handy if anything attacks. You’re in a better position to fight right now than I am.” Eames takes the knife from Arthur’s hand, and Arthur lies down on his stomach to get a better view underneath a particular pile of rubble.

And that’s when the ground collapses underneath him.

======

Eames nearly feels his heart burst out of his chest as Arthur sinks downward, and before he can even register what’s happening, he’s searching himself for something to help Arthur up before he goes too far down and can’t come back up.

Arthur screams and his hands rake concrete above him, reaching helplessly. By the time Eames realizes that he doesn’t have anything on him except a knife, Arthur’s hands are out of reach, and Eames is choked with desperate tears.

“Help!” Arthur cries, squirming helplessly with his hands above his head. “Please, Eames, help!”

Eames doesn’t have much of a choice. He unsheathes his knife and looks at it briefly, terrified. Then, he points the wooden handle toward Arthur and takes hold of the blade, trying to hold it in between his palms so as not to hurt himself. Arthur grabs the end and tries to pull himself up, and Eames finds it slipping. He has no choice.

He wraps both of his hands around the blade and he and Arthur scream at the same time, of pain and fear and the inability to hold on to the knife..

Eames grits his teeth and ignores the tears rolling down his face until Arthur’s feet are on the edge of the sinkhole, and he’s pulling himself up, like they tried to teach in training, the one skill Eames thought he would never have to use.

It’s one last pull and then Arthur collapses on the pavement, the knife thrown haphazardly to the side. Eames can’t even be thankful that neither of them are dead because all he can see and feel and touch is blood.

“Eames,” Arthur gasps, crawling toward him, and Eames can barely contain his own deep inhales, his vision fuzzy and blurred. He can barely see anything and without warning, blackness suddently consumes him without hesitation.

\--

“Eames,” Arthur whispers, and Eames stirs. “Come on, wake up, you need some water.”

It takes a few moments for Eames to fully wake, but when he does, he can’t feel anything below either shoulder. He looks to either side and sees both arms, but can’t move them. He starts to panic and goes to sit up, but Arthur gently pushes down on his chest and he lays back down, swallowing hard.

“First things first,” Arthur says, and holds a canteen up to Eames’s lips. He doesn’t realize he’s thirsty until the water reaches his tongue, but when it does, he can’t stop drinking, and sucks the entire thing dry.

“Is there any more?” he croaks, and Arthur shakes his head.

“That was the last of it. The fountain in Cornucopia is gone, so...” Arthur says, trailing off.

“Sorry about that,” Eames says, feeling guilty. “If I had known it was the last of the water, I would’ve - ”

Arthur cuts him off, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it. You needed it, and worse comes to worst I can try to filter some of the water they used to flood us.” Eames nods, conscious of how useless he is. He takes in his surroundings and realizes that they’re back in the lobby of the building they’d been staying in, now with slightly less clean floors. He also notices that Arthur’s chest is completely bare.

“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” he whispers, afraid to speak any louder.

Arthur smiles and gently touches the bandage on Eames’s upper arm and then the bandages wrapped around his palms, both made of materials that had once been the whole of his shirt.

Eames swallows heavily. “Are you okay?”

Arthur laughs lightly. “I’m fine. You’re the one who almost cut off his own hands.”

Eames closes his eyes and tries to hold back a smile. “That was for you, asshole. Don’t make fun.”

Eames doesn’t see Arthur’s expression, but his tone of voice is not promising. “Don’t remind me.”

There is a long silence, and then Eames feels Arthur rest his head on Eames’s chest.

“I feel like we shouldn’t be going to sleep,” Arthur whispers, sliding his hands along Eames’s chest. “Like they’ll kill us both if we close our eyes.”

“They can’t kill one of us without killing the other like this,” Eames replies, and moves downward so that their bodies fit together more snuggly.

“I suppose,” Arthur says, and inhales near Eames’s neck, and Eames can’t help but remember that it’s been an extraordinarily long time since he’s cleaned himself at all.

“So what now?” Eames asks, almost wondering aloud. “I don’t know if I want to be pulling you out of sinkholes and running away from floods for the rest of my life.”

“They’ll have to take us out eventually,” Arthur mumbles, tired. “If they don’t, they won’t have a Victor to go around to all the districts and wave like they’re fucking happy to be there. At this point, not even I would be happy about being Victor.”

Eames smirks to himself. “I know you don’t actually take pleasure in killing people, Arthur,” he says, licking his lips. “It’s just what you know. And let’s face it, if you didn’t, we’d probably both be dead right now.”

Arthur nods against the fabric on Eames’s shirt and then lays still, his fingers curled around the hem of the pocket of Eames’s trousers.

“I love you,” Eames whispers, and doesn’t get any response. This gives him just the incentive he needs to lean down and press and gentle kiss to the top of Arthur’s head, lingering and soft. He wishes they were out of here, on their own, just so he could kiss Arthur thoroughly and not have to worry about all of Panem seeing it. As he thinks about it as he dozes off, he realizes he wants that more than he’s ever wanted anything else in his entire life.

======

I love you.

Arthur stays close to Eames and listens for his breath to even out, for his inhales to become snores. Eames’s heartbeat is a steady rhythm by his head, much like it was this morning when he woke up.

Before the sinkhole.

Before Eames nearly cut off his goddamn hands just to save Arthur’s life.

Before Eames said I love you.

Fuck.

Arthur had meant to say it back, he had, but he had just... frozen. No one, not even Savera, had ever told Arthur that they loved him. Love was considered undesirable back in his district, something to fight against. Love is dangerous, Arthur had been taught, because love made you weak. It was nothing more than a liability.

Nevertheless, despite his lack of exposure to it, Arthur knew that what he felt for Eames was love. There could be no other explanation, especially not with the way he had attempted to kill himself just so Eames could survive. Not with the way his stomach turned every time Eames smiled at him, not with the way he can’t imagine even living without Eames. Arthur knows he loves Eames.

But hearing Eames say that... well, it shocked him, for lack of a better word. He hadn’t been able to formulate a response, even a weak, “I love you, too,” for another two minutes, and by that point it was too late. So Arthur just hadn’t said anything.

And while he regrets it, he’s also kind of relieved. He doesn’t need all of Panem to hear him tell Eames what should be a personal confession. God, he can only imagine what his parents would say if they heard it. Not like there’s much more damage he can do, but that would be the one thing he could that would make things worse.

But Eames - Eames. Eames is brilliant and amazing and so damn good that it makes Arthur ache sometimes. Eames is the best thing that Arthur ever could’ve asked for, and Arthur refuses to lose him. If the Capitol wants to wage war, well, let them-- because Arthur loves Eames, and - and Eames loves Arthur, and Arthur will do everything in his power to make sure they win.

\--

Arthur wakes up that night after what feels like only two or three hours to the sound of a crash nearby. He sits bolt upright and starts shaking Eames urgently.

“Eames, wake up!” Arthur says, and Eames jolts forward with a start.

“What’s happening?” Eames says, instantly alert.

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t sound good,” Arthur says, standing up and offering his hands so that Eames can use him to get up. Eames reaches his bandaged hands toward Arthur’s and Arthur tugs him up as gently as he can by the wrists. Even when Eames is standing, Arthur keeps his hand around Eames’s wrist, not wanting to hurt Eames’s hands but also not wanting to forgo all contact with him. Eames smiles at him like he understands.

They run the short distance outside, and it takes a moment for Arthur to realize what he’s looking at.

He’s never seen a tornado before, only seen films of them, so he just stands there and watches as the wind whips around him and the sky grows grayer and grayer. Eames apparently has a better idea of what to do.

He hooks his arm through Arthur’s limp one and drags him backwards, out toward the street.

“What are you doing!?” Arthur demands, tugging back toward the direction of the building. “We’ll get killed if we go out there!”

Eames grimaces. “Would you rather we be in that building when it’s torn up out of the ground? Just trust me!”

Arthur closes his eyes briefly and then nods, letting Eames lead the way.

The tornado is still far away when Arthur gets the courage to look up from the ground, but they’re running directly toward it.

“Eames,” he calls out. “Where are we going?”

Eames doesn’t respond, just keeps running, staring at the rubble so as not to trip over anything. Arthur can see the blood soaking through the fabric wrapped around his hands, and wants to make them stop, but knows in the back of his head that that isn’t the best idea.

Finally, just as the tornado is getting dangerously close, close enough to be shifting cement around them, they arrive at an entrance to the tunnels. Arthur is almost surprised by Eames’s cleverness, even though he knows he shouldn’t be. Eames has proven himself to be plenty smart throughout their time as partners. They rush down the steps and even though Arthur wants to stop, they keep running into the tunnels where they go past the train and tons and tons of rubble.

Eames eventually slows to a stop and lets out a choked sort of sob, staring down at his hands. There’s blood running down his arms and Arthur can see nail marks on the bottom parts of his palms where he must have dug into himself while they were running.

He drops suddenly to his knees and tries to rub his hands onto his pants to relieve the pain, but all that does is succeed in getting his pants more bloodied than they already were. Arthur drops down next to him and panics because he honestly has no idea what to do.

“Fuck, Eames,” Arthur mutters, lifting Eames’s hands up. “I - I don’t have anymore fabric I could use to rebandage them.”

“Here,” Eames groans, his eyes squeezed shut. “Just - take my shirt.”

“If you’re sure...” Arthur says, and Eames nods, so Arthur grabs the hem of Eames’s shirt and eases it over Eames’s head, being careful not to further aggravate his injuries. Arthur actually has to pause for a second as he takes in Eames’s bare chest, and he can’t help the way his mouth goes a little dry.

Arthur reprimands himself as he feels a blush creep over his face, and he ducks his head and takes out the knife to cut the fabric. Things like this are for outside of the arena, and, more importantly, for when Eames isn’t in danger of bleeding out.

Once he’s cut it into the appropriate size, he unwraps the current bandages and then wraps the new ones around Eames’s hands.

“Does that feel better?” Arthur asks, swallowing.

Eames grunts, seemingly unwilling to give an answer. His breaths are unsteady, and Arthur can’t think of any way to make him feel better.

And Arthur feels helpless once again.

======

Eames can hear the roaring wind above them, rattling the dead lights on the ceiling and making the floor shake. His breaths are shallow, but at least he’s breathing.

Arthur had eased him downward after they had been there for a while, shifting so his head could fit comfortably in Arthur’s lap. He thought this unusual behavior for the other boy, considering it was usually Eames that prompted the affection that went on between them, but didn’t question it out loud, just relishing in Arthur’s warmth.

Eames stops shaking at around the same time the floor does, and the pain in his hands grows as he has nothing else to focus on. He tries curling them inwards, but that only exacerbates the wound. When Arthur sees what he’s doing, he holds them gently in his own, rubbing his thumb over the cloth bandage every so often. It doesn’t help with the pain, but it comforts Eames to know that Arthur cares enough to try.

Eames thinks it’s about an hour after the wind dies down that they speak again.

“How are your hands?” Arthur whispers, and he sounds shaken, almost.

“Fine,” Eames lies confidently, wiggling his fingers. “They barely hurt at all.”

Arthur purses his lips but says nothing, running his fingers through Eames’s grungy hair.

“I need a shower,” Eames announces, and Arthur chokes out a laugh.

“Me too. Although, after that, I don’t think we’ll be getting one for quite a while.”

Eames nods and sighs. He stops to consider this though. “Maybe once this is all over, and we have the opportunity to never take water for granted ever again, we can take one together.”

Arthur half smiles but takes a moment to look around, as if he’ll see the invisible cameras lodged into cracks in the walls and settled into the floor underneath them. “You think you’re so funny.”

“Maybe once this is all over, and we have the opportunity to never take life for granted ever again, you can appreciate my hilarity.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m so done with you.”

Eames grins, glad their rapport is lighter than usual. “Throw me onto the tracks, into the storm, I dare you. You could never do it.”

Arthur’s smile drops, his voice much more serious as he says, “I really never could. I love you too much.” He flinches immediately after he says it, his eyes widening marginally. His hands immediately come out of Eames’s hair and fall to his sides, fidgeting against the cement floor. “Uh.”

Eames’s heart skips a beat and he smiles widely. “You don’t have to be scared to say it, darling. I love you too. You know that.”

A shudder runs through Arthur’s body and Eames’s expression turns slightly sympathetic. “I love you. Maybe it’s something I wish could be saved for after these horrible Games, but I really don’t think it could’ve waited.”

Arthur says nothing, but Eames can hear him breathing heavily.

“Listen, Arthur,” Eames begins, shifting his weight upwards as best he can without the use of his hands. Eventually, he’s facing him, his feet against the wall and his back to the tracks. “You just said it. You can’t take it back. I know that may scare you, and you care what other people think or whatever, but doesn’t it matter more that we love each other? That you know that your feelings are returned?”

Arthur sighs heavily and wraps his arms around his legs, avoiding Eames’s eyes. “You don’t understand,” he mumbles, and Eames laughs ironically.

“Of course I understand. I’ve had plenty of time to think about it, and it’s not like we haven’t kissed, like they haven’t seen everything we’ve been doing. It’s not fair to hold back now, to have to restrain my feelings, just because we’re in the arena for longer than expected. It’s not fair, and I won’t abide by their rules.”

Eames swears that he can see a tear fall from Arthur’s eye, but it’s so dark that he can’t be sure. Instead of reacting to it, he moves forward onto his knees, and rests his hands on Arthur’s shoulders.

“Come here,” Arthur whispers, and leans in toward Eames when he finally decides that it doesn’t matter, doesn’t make a difference. Or at least, that’s what Eames assumes.

Eames kisses him, and even though Arthur seemingly initiated it, he doesn’t respond to Eames’s lips, pressing gently.

When it’s been too long for Eames to ignore that Arthur isn’t going to do anything about it, he just shifts his attention to the corner of Arthur’s mouth, sliding down his chin, to his neck, and then his collar bone. Without a shirt, it’s easy to access the skin there. He presses kisses along the bone for a long few moments before giving up and just pressing his face to Arthur’s chest.

He shivers then, suddenly cold, and it takes Arthur a few seconds to respond before he puts his arms around Eames’s naked upper body.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispers, and Eames lets out large breath, not sure if he’s talking about just then, or the fact that he doesn’t have a shirt, or maybe the entire situation all together.

A minute passes with either of them saying anything, and then:

“I don’t want to live without you, Eames.”

Eames nods in affirmation, shifting himself so that his head is in Arthur’s lap again. “Yeah, so when we get out of this, we’ll have to figure something out.” He feels Arthur shake his head.

“No, I mean... If you die, then I don’t want to keep... going, I guess. I’d die too.” His breathing is forced now, almost choked out.

“Darling... you know I feel the same way. But I couldn’t ask you to die like that.”

Arthur smiles guiltily. “You weren’t asking.”

“I love you, Arthur,” Eames says finally, and closes his eyes.

======

Arthur doesn’t know what to do.

Eames had fallen asleep a few minutes ago, his head still in Arthur’s lap, and Arthur is more afraid than he’s even been in his entire life.

He shouldn’t have said it. He hadn’t meant to say it, it had just come out without him thinking. It’s not that he doesn’t mean it - because God, he does. He loves Eames more than he ever thought he was capable of loving anyone, to the point where he’s absolutely sure of the truth in what he told Eames; he knows that if Eames were to die, there’s no way Arthur could go on living. Eames is the only person he has to live for, now, since his parents probably disowned him ages ago, and it’s not like any of his “friends” from back home will want to talk to him after watching this.

But knowing that Eames loves him back... Eames is right, that is something wonderful to know.

That, of course, doesn’t mean he doesn’t regret saying it on national television, which his parents probably watched with disgust and his dad is probably planned the best way to teach Arthur a lesson if he manages to come home alive. Eames had said he understood, and while Arthur would like to believe he does, he knows that Eames doesn’t actually know how much shit Arthur’s gotten himself into. Arthur knows, without a doubt, that if he were caught doing this back in District 2, his dad would beat him within an inch of his life, and never let him forget that he didn’t deserve any better if he was going to be a faggot. So it’s not just caring about what other people will think, although that is part of it - it’s safety, too. Arthur may be a trained fighter, but his dad is dangerous in a totally different way, and when he’s really angry, nothing or no one can get in his way.

Besides, Arthur used to think that he deserved it every time his dad swung his fists in Arthur’s direction, every time he bruised, used to think he deserved the few scars that litter his body, so it’s not like he ever fought back. But now, since Eames came into his life, Arthur’s starting to realize just how wrong that is. He deserved his dad’s beatings about as much as any of these other tributes deserved to die.

He wishes, more than anything, that he and Eames had met anywhere but here, somewhere Arthur wouldn’t have to regret telling Eames how he feels about him, somewhere Arthur wouldn’t have to try and hold himself back. He remembers Eames casually mentioning something about them showering together when this was all over, and Arthur can’t help but picture it - him and Eames, pressed together in the small space, naked bodies dripping with water. He flushes as he thinks of it - he’s never wanted anyone before, but Eames awakens something in him he never knew he possessed.

Arthur knows the Capitol isn’t even close to being through with them, especially with the way they’re breaking a law that’s never been broken this brashly and publicly. The Capitol could kill them both at any moment if they saw fit; Arthur’s surprised it hasn’t happened yet, to be honest, but for all he knows they’re just planning some kind of spectacular finale.

He looks down at Eames, who’s just shifted in his sleep. His head is still resting perfectly in Arthur’s lap, and Arthur can’t help but smile at him. Of course, then he catches sight of Eames’s bandaged hands, and a feeling of guilt washes over him. I can’t possibly be worth that, he thinks, remembering how badly the wounds had been bleeding before he first patched them up. How could I ever be worth that much to somebody?

He lightly traces his fingers over Eames’s wounds, and then presses his same fingers up against his neck, where he can feel a few of the bruises that were left by the rope he used when he tried to kill himself.

He really loves you, Arthur tells himself. If he didn’t love you, he would’ve let you fall into the sinkhole instead of digging a knife blade into his hands to pull you up.

He presses his fingers back against the bandages, and Eames huffs out a breath and tucks his face further into Arthur’s chest. Arthur thinks of bloody hands and bruised necks. Arthur thinks, He loves you, and you love him. And people might think it’s wrong, and maybe you love each other in a fucked up way, but all that matters is that you have each other.

Arthur almosts wants to laugh at himself for thinking something so cheesy, but the thought allows a deep sense of calm to wash over him, and he leans his head on his shoulder and closes his eyes, hands still resting on top of Eames’s.

\--

The night, miraculously, passes without incident.

When Arthur wakes up, it’s still dark in the tunnels, and Eames’s head is still in his lap. Arthur, on a whim, leans down and presses a kiss to Eames’s forehead.

“Hey, we need to wake up,” Arthur says, and Eames blinks his eyes once, twice before opening them completely. He smiles a little dazedly up at Arthur and says, “Good morning, darling.”

“Morning,” Arthur says back. There’s a few seconds of silence before Arthur talks again. “I think we need to get out of the tunnels, I don’t like the idea of being in an enclosed space. There’s much more they can do to us, here.”

Eames nods, still smiling. He reaches his hand up and taps Arthur’s right temple with an unbandaged finger. “Always thinking strategy, you are. That’s what makes you the best.”

Arthur tries to pretend he’s not blushing by swatting at Eames’s hand and telling him to sit up. Eames obliges, and they set out, retrieving the empty canteen and their one knife. Arthur doesn’t want to say anything, but he doesn’t think their chances of survival are looking that good with what they have right now, and it’s not like they’re going to get sponsors anytime soon.

They climb up the stairs and have to shield their eyes from the sun. The city, somehow, looks even worse than it did before, but Arthur supposes a tornado will do that. Arthur can’t even tell where the apartment building they stayed in is anymore, as at this point it’s just another pile of rubble on the city streets.

Eames’s shirt-bandages are looking worse for wear, but there’s not much else Arthur can do for him at this point, and he hates himself for it. It’s his fault Eames is even injured in the first place, and he can’t even fix it.

Arthur grabs for Eames’s wrist as soon as they’re out of the tunnel. It’s not nearly as nice as holding Eames’s hand, but it’s better than nothing.

Eames is looking around at the remains of the city as if he’s never seen anything this terrible, and Arthur thinks that maybe he hasn’t, either. There’s a picture, in one of the history textbooks Arthur studied, of what happened to the surrounding towns after a nuclear power factory exploded pre-Panem. He can’t help but think the city they’re in right now looks eerily similar to that one.

“Christ,” Eames says. “It’s like a fucking wasteland.”

“I know,” Arthur says. “Even more reason to get out of here.”

“Where to, then?” Eames says.

“I don’t know,” Arthur says, his lips turning down. “I would say the Cornucopia, but...”

“Yeah,” Eames says, and Arthur can’t help the way his gaze flicks over to Eames’s hands.

“Let’s just walk, then. If we’re lucky, we’ll find somewhere with less rubble and more space,” Arthur says, not wanting to comment on the fact that luck really has nothing to do with it. The only thing that matters is how merciful the Gamemakers are feeling, and Arthur doesn’t think they’ll be feeling very merciful.

He remembers, again, that all they have on them is an empty canteen and a single knife. Arthur can’t help his lack of confidence in the odds of both of them surviving past today, and he hates the Captiol so viciously in that second it almost knocks him over. He doesn’t know how he ever bought into it, how he ever thought killing twenty-three other kids on national television would be an honor. It’s not an honor in any way - it’s just fucked up, plain and simple.

He wishes he had some way to beat the Gamemakers at their own game, but if there’s anything he can do from inside the arena they control, he hasn’t thought of it yet.

They trek for around an hour, each part of the city they arrive at looking worse off than the last. Arthur’s pretty sure they’ve been walking in circles this entire time.

“Arthur,” Eames says finally. “Can we sit down for a second? My leg still isn’t completely healed, and this isn’t helping.”

Arthur sighs, frustrated, and nods. They sit down on a slab of stone, and Eames lets out a sigh of relief.

Arthur scrubs a hand over his face, and turns to Eames. “Maybe I was wrong. They could close the tunnel in on us, sure, but I honestly don’t think they will. Ratings will go down if no one can actually tell which one of us died and how. We might actually be safer down there.”

“You tell me this after an hour of walking?” Eames asks exasperated but also clearly teasing.

“Sorry,” Arthur says anyways, feeling guilty for wasting so much time being active while they’re both on the brink of dehydration. “I’m sorry, I honestly thought that maybe we could find something - ”

“Arthur,” Eames says, cutting him off. “Don’t worry about it. I think we’re relatively close to the tunnels as it is, so we may as well.”

They walk back in silence, Arthur’s hand still grasping Eames’s wrist. They descend back into the tunnels, and Eames sits down immediately as Arthur takes up pacing across the space.

“I just don’t know what angle they’re working from,” Arthur says frustratedly, rubbing his hand through his hair. “It makes no sense that they haven’t ripped us apart limb by limb yet, they’ve been so much crueler to people in past Games, and none of them had broken national laws. If I knew what they were thinking, then maybe I could - ”

“Shh, Arthur,” Eames says. “None of this is your fault, and it’s not your job to try to figure out what the Gamemakers are going to do next.”

They’re silent for a few more minutes, ostensibly because there’s not much else they can say. Arthur has sat down next to Eames by this point and is staring straight at the train tracks and thinking about how absolutely miserable he’ll be if the Capitol somehow manages to kill Eames when it hits him, a way where neither of them has to live without the other that can double as a huge “fuck you” to the Capitol.

“Eames,” Arthur says, and Eames looks right at him. He leans in toward Eames to whisper this in his ear - he knows the Capitol probably has a way to hear this, too, but he hopes against all hope that they can’t. “Eames, what if - what if we killed ourselves?”

“Arthur...” Eames says, a low warning. “You already tried that, and I’m not willing to go there again.”

“No, not just me,” Arthur says, sitting up straighter and still whispering. “You, too. Both of us. That way... that way neither of us will have to live without the other - ”

“Yeah, because we’ll both be bloody dead!” Eames whispers furiously back. “I’m not letting you attempt to off yourself again.”

“Can you really tell me that you think we have a chance of surviving past today?” Arthur points out. “We have a single knife and a canteen that doesn’t even have water in it-- we haven’t had water for around a day now, and we haven’t eaten in longer. We’re going to keep getting weaker, and it’s only going to get easier and easier for the Capitol to target us.”

“Arthur, I’m not going to let you sit there and just-- give up. That’s not you. I won’t let you do that,” Eames says fervently, a panicked look in his eyes.

“I’m not giving up, Eames. The way I see it, we can let the Capitol toy with us until they get bored and kill one of us, or we can decide how we die, and show them that we’re not just here for them to fuck around with,” Arthur says back, praying that Eames will get it.

Eames doesn’t say anything for a few moments, so Arthur continues. “It’s not like either of us have anything to go back to, Eames. You’re all I have at this point, and if you want to keep trying, I will. But I’d rather decide my own death than have it be decided by the Capitol based on entertainment value.”

“You’re all I have, too,” Eames says back, his voice softer than it was before. “I understand what you’re saying, but... ” Eames sighs. “What if there’s another way for us to survive?”

“Eames, the Capitol and the Gamemakers are probably counting down the seconds until they can do away with us in some grandiose fashion that will have people cringing in front of their television sets. They’re not going to let both of us leave the arena alive, they’ve made that much clear,” Arthur says, then takes a deep breath. “I told you that I don’t think I can live without you, and that’s the truth. If the Capitol killed you, I don’t - I don’t think I’d ever get over it. At least this way we can go out together, and show everyone that we’re not just tokens for them to mess around with when they feel like it.”

Eames blinks a few times, and then looks at Arthur directly. Arthur’s heart is beating double time in his chest. Eames exhales softly and then says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Arthur asks, just making sure.

Eames nods. “Let’s do this, then,” he says, and then pulls Arthur in and kisses him on the mouth, hard.

Arthur blushes furiously, and Eames gives him a small smile. “So how are we going to manage that?” he says. “If we use the knife, there’s no way both of us can have a chance to... you know, before the Gamemakers interfere.”

“I was thinking... I was thinking we could use the train,” Arthur admits. “You think it still works?”

“No time like the present to find out,” Eames says and stands up. Arthur hurries to follow. Eames steps into the conductor’s car and presses a few buttons, Arthur watching as the train whirs to life under Eames’s hands.

“I’m thinking that’s a yes,” Eames says. “I think Emira... yeah, she did, that girl was a genius.”

“What?” Arthur asks.

“Auto-pilot. It can drive without anyone being in it. As long as the tracks are set in a circle, which I’m pretty sure we did ourselves when I was teaching you the basics, we should be able to let it run the tracks once and then...”

“Yeah. That sounds... yeah,” Arthur says, and watches as Eames configures a few things and then indicates for Arthur to exit the car, and does the same. They watch silently as it exits their line of sight, and all that’s left is waiting.

Eames cradles Arthur’s face in his hands, despite the bandages, and kisses him gently, so gently, and for once, Arthur doesn’t protest the fragility of it. He brings his hands slowly up to Eames’s shoulders and kisses back just as gently for a few more seconds before Arthur moves his hand down to Eames’s forearm and tugs him toward the tracks.

“I’ll go down first so I can try and help you down,” Arthur says, and he can hear the sound of the train in the distance. He gives Eames one last peck before jumping onto the tracks. He turns around and Eames follows suit, Arthur managing to carry a bit of his weight.

“Shall we sit, my darling?” Eames asks, a small, sad smile on his face despite what’s about to happen.

“That sounds brilliant,” Arthur says, and so they do, letting their knees just barely touch as they face each other. The train’s rumbling is getting louder and Eames says, “I love you,” and Arthur says it too, almost shouts it to be heard over the approaching train that’s getting closer and closer and closer and -

The national anthem plays over the loudspeakers and Arthur hears a panicked voice say, “Stop, stop! We announce the two Victors of the 25th annual Hunger Games, Arthur Adjoy and Eames Duri!”

Arthur feels so much in that moment he doesn’t know what to do, but the train still hasn’t stopped, so he quickly presses Eames to the side of the tracks before it hits them. It whirs by them, and Arthur can feel himself starting to sob, pressed against the concrete wall of the train tracks.

Eames pulls Arthur into a tight hug, and mumbles into his hair, “We did it. We fucking did it, Arthur. I love you so much.” He keeps talking like he doesn’t expect a response, which, considering Arthur can’t stop crying, is just as well.

“We need to - we need to get back up, before - before the train comes back,” Arthur manages to choke out, and Arthur pulls himself up and then reaches down to help Eames gain his footing. They collapse on the floor next to each other, and Arthur reaches blindly for Eames and is relieved when he finds him, when Eames pulls him in and allows Arthur to bury his head in Eames’s neck.

They did it. They’re alive. Arthur loves Eames, and Eames loves Arthur, and everything is going to be okay.

======

Eames wants to cry, and he’s not completely sure why. He’s happy of course, happy that he gets to live and hopefully gets to stay with Arthur, but his heart is still beating rapidly, stuck in his throat. He can’t get the image of the train moving toward him out of his brain, still afraid that it’s going to come back and hit them both and he’ll never get to kiss Arthur again, talk to him, love him, anything.

They stand and Eames can’t move further than that, not really, still too stunned, and Arthur has to drag him forward until they reach the edge of the tracks, and then urge him upward until he can climb the side himself. Once they’re up on the side, Arthur takes Eames’s hand and drags him forward, moving more quickly than a walk, almost like he’s eager to get back to the Capitol, the place that ruined their lives. Eames feels disgusted, almost wishes he didn’t have to get on the stupid hovercraft.

They finally reach the stairs and it’s getting dark once again, a sunset blooming from what looks like under the rubble. A hovercraft is settled above them and two ladders are hanging from it, waving back and forth in the remnants of the wind. A familiar gray has settled down and muted the colors of the setting sun, reminding Eames very much of home. Once upon a time, the thought would have pleased him. Now, it just provokes feelings of terror and sadness. There’s no home for him to live in, no little sister to go back to. Nothing worth living for if he were to return.

He hasn’t thought about Silver in a long time, It feels like ages ago, and his heart aches for Silver, and Emira, and everyone else that had died in this stupid arena or any stupid arena, and he has to pull Arthur back to wait as he throws up at the top of the stairs.

Arthur says nothing, just keeps a hand on Eames’s back and pulls him close when he’s done. There wasn’t much to get rid of, considering he hasn’t eaten in days, and he’s dehydrated and wants to just curl up and die. Despite all this, Arthur pulls him along to the ladders and grips him tightly with one arm, helping him curl his arms around the rungs so he doesn’t have to hang on with his hands. Eames doesn’t know how to feel, really, when the second ladder is ignored and Arthur just wraps himself around Eames instead.

The hovercraft starts moving and he holds on for dear life, to both Arthur and the ladder, and stops worrying so much when he realizes that they’re frozen in place as they glide over the crumbled wasteland. He can remember how the city looked when they first arrived, silver and shining, and if it weren’t for the silence of apocalyptic disaster, he almost would’ve liked it.

The thing with having fallen in love so quickly, Eames thinks, is that they didn’t have any time to really get to know each other. Because, well, he doesn’t even really know Arthur, is the thing. He knows that he’s practically starved for affection, hates his family, was trained to kill from childhood, but. He wants the opportunity to really know him, and the fact that that might not be able to scares him more than falling, right now.

Neither of them say anything for the time they’re ascending toward the hovercraft, but all these thoughts make Eames want to jump, to really die this time, because he knows Arthur would jump after him, and then neither of them would have to worry, to feel anything.

But he remembers the train and the fear, the fear of never having Arthur ever again. He can’t even stand the thought.

They reach the opening on the bottom of the hovercraft and are pulled inside by two people on either side of them. They have to release each other to get inside safely, and as soon as the doors on the floor are closed, they cling to the other like it’s the only chance they have to live.

Eames sees the man who pulled Arthur inside from over their hug and he looks disgusted, his eyes diverted to the floor. He would say something, but his throat is so clogged that he can’t bring himself to get words out, so he just stays silent and shoves his face into the crook of Arthur’s neck.

After a few moments, they pull apart and are ushered toward seats lining the sides of the hovercraft. They sit next to each other and hold hands tightly around the buckles restraining them, and still, no words are said.

Eames didn’t realize that he could feel this vulnerable; now, he has the constant fear that someone is going to rip their arms apart or kill them on the spot, and it makes his heart beat rapidly in his chest, even as he sits there, out of harm’s way.

He leans over and rests his head on Arthur’s shoulder, closing his eyes. He feels Arthur stroke his hair gently with the hand that isn’t latched on to his own, and he’s soon asleep, oblivious to the world around him.

\--

He wakes in his bed in the Capitol, alone.

He panics instantly and sits upright, flinging the covers aside before he calms himself down, trying to think rationally.

Just because we’re together doesn’t mean the Capitol is going to put us together, he reasons with himself, and wishes he had never fallen asleep in the first place.

He stands, expecting to have to put more weight on his good leg, but finds that it’s unnecessary, his leg having seemingly healed overnight. He looks down at his hands and sees no crusted blood or bandages, just a light pink scar down the middle of each of his palms, the left shorter than the right. He wants to throw up again, like he’s been wanting to more and more lately.

He tries to avoid running to the dining hall, but can barely contain himself. When he gets there, it’s completely silent. He checks every single room of the disgusting little Capitol apartment, and almost wants to be back in the arena, where he knows that he would have Arthur, even if they wouldn’t be safe.

He goes back to his room, wanting to cry once again, and there he finds clothes laid out for him. It’s a suit, grey, three piece, and there’s nothing he wants to wear less than that right now. He doesn’t really see any other choice, though, so he slowly strips himself of his silk pajamas, still wary of his injuries even though he knows that they’ve healed, and puts on the revolting attire.

As he’s messily straightening his tie, he sees himself in a mirror across the room, and stops to admire himself. Sure, he might hate it, but he does think he looks good. His hair is flung in different directions, but it’s cleaner than it’s been in months, and he can’t help but admire how his skin glows in the light. He looks healthy, which is so unreasonable for what he just went through.

When he walks back into the main room with his ridiculous suit on, there are two people there waiting for him. Two people, who, despite the fact that he’s back in the Capitol, were the last people he expected to see.

Greir and Tessa.

He says nothing for a very long time, and despite the fact that they know he’s there, they don’t turn toward him. They just stare down at the table in front of them with blank expressions.

“Uh... hi,” Eames says awkwardly, and can’t help but feel slightly guilty while he looks at Greir’s hair falling around her face. “Good to see you again?”

Tessa finally lets up a smile, very tight and restrained. “Yeah, Eames. Glad you’re alive.”

Greir nods slightly across from her, standing slowly. “Your interviews are... soon.”

Eames gestures at himself. “I gathered.”

Tessa walks forward and puts her hands out, a large breath leaving her mouth. Eames can see she’s hesitant, but she puts her arms around him anyway and squeezes him tightly in a hug. “You look great. Let’s go downstairs and we’ll fix you up with some makeup and a good hair style and then Greir can come down and... help out.”

Greir says nothing.

“Yeah, alright.”

They walk toward the elevator together and neither of them say anything for the entire ride down. She escorts him to the makeup room and he sits and she quickly starts to do what feels like cosmetic surgery on him. He closes his eyes as the people do his hair, and all he can really think about is Arthur and what they’re going to do after all of this is over.

When they’re finished, he only takes a quick glance in the mirror to see that he looks good, his hair slicked back but still soft looking. His eyes look bigger, more innocent, and he supposes that the makeup people are very good at their job.

Tessa comes back, looking frustrated. Eames doesn’t ask what’s wrong, but that’s unnecessary because she offers the information anyway.

“Greir was supposed to have come down by now, and I can’t find her anywhere.”

“So?” Eames asks, not caring as much as he probably should.

Tessa looks angry, suddenly. “You got yourself into a lot of shit, Eames. You better hope that boy was really worth it, or else you’re going to live the rest of your life an outcast. President Colt is not going to be happy and--”

“Damn right,” a voice says from across the room, loud and booming.

It’s the president.

Eames swallows heavily, not liking where this is going.

“I realize that it’s partially my fault for letting this happen. Though, it’s mostly the Gamemaker’s fault and a lot your fault too, so I’m not going to go that far.”

Colt’s skin is pasty and grey, but his hair looks black and healthy in stark contrast. He’s wearing a red suit, shining slightly against the harsh lights, right into Eames’s eyes. He feels positively sick.

“So here’s what’s going to happen, Mr. Duri,” Colt says as he takes his last steps right in front of Eames, invading his personal space. “This interview? It’s never going to happen. It won’t be recorded. These Games will never be talked about in our textbooks or on television and all evidence of it will be discarded.”

Eames was expecting much worse. This is something he even partially agrees with.

“When you go out there and talk with Magnus, keep your sentences limited. He’s not going to ask about your relationship with Mr. Adjoy, you are not to touch Mr. Adjoy, and I don’t even really want you to look at Mr. Adjoy. If you follow these rules, then I’ll make you an offer that you can’t refuse.” His grin is ugly and painful to look at.

“Do you understand, Mr. Duri?” Colt asks sternly, stepping even closer.

“Yes, sir,” Eames responds, looking downward.

“Good.”

\--

The entrance to the stage is oddly quiet compared to the last time Eames was there.

Greir never comes down, and Eames is relieved to a certain extent. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed. He can’t believe he thought he could feel about anyone else the same way he feels about Arthur, but she was a good friend and a good mentor.

Even though he’s backstage, he can still hear people walking into the studio, taking their seats excitedly. He can’t tell if they’re excited to see him, Arthur, or the drama. He can’t imagine that it would be anything but the third, though.

He waits for a little while longer before Magnus Vipointe shows up. He doesn’t even look at Eames, just walks around him as people shuffle about, trying to do last minute touches on him. Eames finds all this utterly ridiculous.

After a few more minutes, Arthur walks through the door and Eames wants to jump him right there. He’s wearing a black suit with a white handkerchief tucked into the pocket neatly, his hair matching Eames in that it’s gelled back and still looks good. He looks handsome rather than innocent, and Eames knows that the crowd won’t be able to resist him even if they don’t like him.

He’s followed by his mentor and stylist, and looks around worriedly before finally catching sight of Eames and smiling at him widely.

Eames returns the expression and walks forward in what he hopes comes off as a nonchalant fashion. Arthur breaks away from the people flanking him and meets Eames halfway, biting his lip.

“Hey,” Arthur says, swallowing.

Eames laughs. “Hey, yourself.”

Arthur gives a slight chuckle and wraps his arms around himself. “This is so weird. Being out of the arena. It almost feels like we don’t belong.”

Eames nods. “Well, we don’t really. Did President Colt come to see you?”

Arthur grimaces. “Yeah. Scared the crap out of me. Told me he expected better and that he expected us not to... do anything on stage.”

Eames doesn’t express his weird jealousy at the fact that the President favorited Arthur. Why should he care? Neither of them like him, and it doesn’t matter anyway. “Yeah.”

A long aching silence spreads between them before Arthur whispers, “I really want to kiss you right now.”

Eames is so taken aback that he actually has to steady himself. “But-- we’re in public and President Colt said--”

“The President isn’t here right now, and he said on stage, at least to me. I don’t care who sees but... I missed you, Eames. Even just for the few hours we were apart... I missed you. I guess that’s how you really know that you love someone, when you can’t stand to be apart from them for more than... at all.”

Eames wants to cry, he’s so happy. He’s happy to know that Arthur still loves him, wasn’t using him, doesn’t care about other people.

“God,” Eames gets in before pulling Arthur forward by the hips, one hand snaking around his back and the other in Arthur’s perfectly gelled hair. His lips find Arthur’s frantically, his tongue licking along the inside of Arthur’s mouth. Arthur bites his tongue playfully, not releasing it until Eames clacks their teeth together again. It forces Arthur to respond, a lot less playfully and a lot more sexually, his hand skimming down Eames’s stomach, finding its way into his vest.

Eames breaks away before it gets too ridiculous, and Arthur looks both pleased and disappointed. He looks around and Eames notices that practically everybody has cleared away from them and is doing their own business elsewhere, leaving the room nearly empty, save for the people crossing through. Eames laughs, embarrassed, and Arthur drops his eyes to the floor, trying to hide his smile. His lips are fabulously swollen and Eames can hardly bear the thought that they’re going to have to go onstage and barely interact.

“Ten minutes till showtime!” somebody calls from the stage and Eames licks his lips.

“As much as I’d like to continue that right now, you should go fix your hair. It looks ridiculous,” he offers, and Arthur smirks.

“Go ice your lips,” Arthur retorts back, his voice low and heated. “It looks like you just tried to kiss somebody’s fist.”

“Might as well have been, with the way you kiss,” Eames jokes and gives Arthur one last peck on the lips before shoving him back the way he came. Arthur walks away, moving his ass slightly in a way that makes Eames go a little crazy inside.

He wipes his mouth with his sleeve and walks off to go find a mirror. He can only hope that it doesn’t look as bad as Arthur claims.

He finds an empty bathroom and stares at himself momentarily before turning on the sink and cupping his hands to rinse out his mouth with water. He hopes that they get some time together later before they have to get on the train... and leave.

He walks back just in time for the show to start, Magnus yelling loudly at the audience to keep them entertained. Arthur is standing by the stage entrance and Eames joins him, linking their fingers together.

They don’t talk in the few minutes before they go on. They barely even glance at each other. The only reason Eames knows Arthur even realizes he’s there is the fact that he keeps squeezing his hand tightly, softening only when it hurts to hold on anymore. Eames is glad that his hands are no longer injured.

Finally, Magnus calls for them from the stage and the audience has some strange reactions, from cheering to booing to laughing and more. Eames can barely feel it in him to react, and just barely remembers to let go of Arthur’s hand before he walks out on stage at the urge of Arthur’s mentor.

It’s really all a blur. He can’t believe he’s actually here, with Arthur, Arthur, the most perfect person for him in the entire world. They sit in their respective seat across from Magnus and the crowd quiets.

“So, boys. You’ve both just won the Hunger Games, going against all of the odds, and then some. How do you feel?”

Arthur answers. “I think I can probably speak for the both of us when I say we’re both very relieved to be alive, Magnus.”

Eames nods in agreement.

“Well, I think that’s expected, of course.”

Arthur answers some more for the both of them and Eames does his best to pay attention and remember that he’s on national television, even if nobody is ever going to be able to look back at this again.

“So Eames, what about you?”

Eames freezes where he sits. Crap. “Sorry? I’m still a bit tired, you know.”

Magnus and the crowd both laugh and Eames watches as Arthur’s face tightens, worried. “What are you going to do now with your new riches? Your crowned title? Victor of the Hunger Games?”

Eames pauses and takes a deep breath. “I have no idea. It’s all just so sudden and I wasn’t exactly thinking about it in the arena. I didn’t even think I’d win. It’s all just such a... surprise, I suppose.” He tries his hardest not to look at Arthur as he says it, but can’t help a glance.

Arthur is looking away but Eames can see him swallow and roll his shoulders back.

“Well, you have all the time in the world to figure it out. You never have to worry about money again.” By now, they’re just skirting around the edges of conversation about the relationship, and the tension in the audience makes it obvious. “So bashful, you are. It surprises me that neither of you said that you’d want to move to the Capitol. You both seemed to thrive in city life.”

The blood rushes to Eames’s face and both of them chuckle awkwardly as Magnus continues to talk at them. Before Eames knows it, the interview is over. He has to resist throwing himself at Arthur, and waits until they’re backstage until he grasps Arthur’s hand in his own. It’s almost over. Just a few more hours.

Just a few more hours together.

======

The first thing Arthur feels when he steps off the stage is pure, unadulterated relief.

Before Arthur can even be sure they’re actually out of sight of the audience, Eames’ hand shoots out and grabs his own. Arthur pulls Eames toward him, shaking slightly as he buries his head in Eames’ shoulder and inhales deeply. He’s surprised when the smell that greets him is different than the one he’s grown used to; although, he supposes, it makes sense, seeing as Eames has been cleaned since they last saw each other.

“God, that was terrible,” Eames says into Arthur’s hair.

Arthur doesn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound absolutely idiotic, but he’s saved from answering by the sound of someone clearing their throat behind them with intent.

They jump apart almost immediately, but Eames makes sure to keep Arthur’s hand inside of his. Arthur really thinks for the first time about how big this is, especially considering he hadn’t even been able to hold Eames’s hand the last time they were together. He supposes that, if nothing else, the Capitol is at least good for that.

President Colt is standing across the room from them, a sneer on his pasty face.

“I would say I hate to break up the tender moment you two are so obviously sharing, but I don’t,” he says, and Arthur almost has to laugh at the amount of smug satisfaction the President Colt’s face. He probably would laugh, if he weren’t so terrified.

“President Colt,” Arthur says, bowing his head, and looking to make sure Eames does the same. Once Eames lifts his head back up, the president gestures toward a door that leads out of the backstage area and into a hallway.

“Shall we?” he asks, and then briskly walks ahead of them, not even checking to make sure Arthur and Eames are following him.

He leads them down a long hallway with quite a few turns, and more than once Arthur’s afraid that the president is just going to lock them in one of the many rooms and kill them. Arthur always squeezes Eames’s hand tightly whenever thoughts like those cross his mind, and reminds himself that the last thing the Capitol wants to do is create martyrs.

The president finally opens a door and indicates that Arthur and Eames should enter. The room is filled with plush, multicoloured furniture, and President Colt gestures toward a purple couch. Eames sits down first, and Arthur follows, keeping his hand cocooned tightly in Eames’s.

President Colt closes the door behind him, and then sits in a red armchair across from the two of them. Eames gives his hand a squeeze, and Arthur squeezes him back, knowing that Eames probably needs the comfort as much as he does.

“Now, as you boys have probably figured out, you’ve caused a lot of problems for me and my country,” President Colt says, looking straight at them.

“We never wanted to -- ” Eames starts, but President Colt raises his hand to cut him off.

“It doesn’t matter whether or not you wanted to. What you did do was break two of the oldest and most obeyed laws in our society. As you can guess, I can’t sit back and let that stand.”

Arthur jumps in then. “President Colt, you have to know it was never our intention to break the law. None of our actions were meant to cause you any difficulties, we just did what we felt we had to do to get out alive,” Arthur says. It’s on the tip of his tongue to add that he and Eames never would’ve teamed up if it hadn’t been for the Capitol’s Quarter Quell trick, but he holds back, not wanting to make the president any angrier than he already is.

The president sighs. “As much as I favor the option where I treat both of you to a slow and painful public death, my advisor has told me again and again that this would only make the public sympathize with your cause, and I find myself forced to agree. So, here’s what we’re going to do. This Hunger Games? No footage will be saved from it. In our textbooks and official records, your joint victory will be noted as a special Quarter Quell exception, and the fact that the Gamemakers rescinded the twist will not be recorded anywhere. There will be no write-ups of the Games officially, and, although you two will have to go on a Victory Tour, after that we expect never to hear from you again, and that includes an alleviation of all of the duties you would’ve had as mentors.

“Now, I recognize that your silence probably has a price. Normally I would just threaten you with death if you talked, but I’ve already told you that your lives are not in danger. So, what’ll it take for this to happen just as I want it to?” President Colt is staring straight at them now, an intense glint in his eye.

Arthur doesn’t quite know how to respond, but luckily, Eames doesn’t seem to be facing the same predicament. “We want to live here. Together. Free passage into the Capitol.” Eames is looking at the president, but his gaze flicks to Arthur for a quick second, and Arthur has to quell the urge to kiss him right then and there. He hadn’t realized just how much he wanted that until Eames had just said it, and now, as the idea hangs in the air between them and the president, Arthur doesn’t know if he’ll be able to bear it if the president refuses.

Colt keeps looking at them for a few more seconds before relenting. “I can arrange for that to happen,” he says reluctantly, and Arthur lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Eames squeezes his hand, turning toward him slightly with a smile. “But there will be conditions to your living here,” the president adds.

“Like?” Arthur prompts when Colt offers nothing further.

“For one thing, I expect that your time in public areas will be limited, and if it even crosses your mind to do anything that even slightly resembles a public display of affection, there will be hell to pay. You are not to speak with anyone about your time in the arena, even casually. If anyone brings it up, you find some reason to get out of the situation, or I promise you, you will regret it. Lastly, wherever you choose to live be in a secluded area. The last thing we need is for people to get the idea that being a faggot is okay,” the president says, giving the word faggot an edge. Arthur tries to stop himself from flinching, and reminds himself that it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks or says. All that matters is that he has Eames.

“That’s fine,” Eames says shortly. “Right, Arthur?”

Arthur nods. “I see no issues with it.”

“Then we have a deal,” Colt says, a sinister smile appearing on his face. “Now, I’d appreciate it if you would leave. Your rooms in the training center are still set up and ready, so you can use those until we have a place built for the two of you. I’ll send someone in the morning with drafts of contracts for you two to sign.”

Arthur stands up, Eames following suit. They both bow, even though the very idea of bowing down to President Colt makes acid rise in Arthur’s throat. He doesn’t think he’s ever hated someone as much as he hates the president and all that he represents.

They walk out of the room, and as soon as the door closes behind them, Arthur presses Eames against the wall and attacks him. He kisses Eames as hard as he dares, and Eames gives him as good as he’s getting for about a minute before backing away and stroking Arthur’s face. “Arthur, Arthur,” Eames says, and Arthur can’t help the chill that runs down his spine at the reverence in Eames’s ton.

“Eames,” Arthur breathes back, his hands fisted in the collar of Eames’s shirt, even though he doesn’t remember putting them there.

“C’mon love, why don’t we head back to the training center? More privacy there,” Eames suggests, taking his hand down from Arthur’s face and unwinding the grip Arthur has in his shirt. Arthur nods, and they only take a few more steps before Arthur’s hand is back in Eames’s.

“I love you so much, Eames,” Arthur says quietly after a few seconds. “So much.”

Eames looks over at Arthur and smiles. “Me, too, Arthur. I love you, too.”

Arthur smiles softly back and gives Eames’s hand a squeeze.

It hits him, suddenly, that he and Eames are finally safe. No one is trying to kill them anymore, whether it be a fellow tribute or the Gamemakers. They have an abundance of food and water available to them, and there aren’t cameras capturing every single word they speak or everything they do. It feels like a dream, like he’ll wake up and still be in the arena, fighting for his and Eames’s life.

It’s not, he reminds himself firmly. I’m safe, Eames is safe, and we have each other. The thought comforts him more than a little bit, and he cants a small smile in Eames’s direction. And as Eames smiles back, Arthur can’t help thinking that he could get used to this.

======

Nobody passes them on the way there, so it’s a relatively quiet walk. They go undetected until they walk into the training center and Eames is about to wind his arms around Arthur’s waist when he catches Greir’s gaze from the corner of his eye.

Eames stops dead in his tracks and turns toward her, not releasing Arthur. “Greir,” he says, nodding.

She says nothing, looking green in the face, and walks away as quickly as she can without running.

Arthur looks back and forth between Eames and her until the door has slammed shut behind her.

“Sorry,” Eames grumbles, clearing his throat.

“For what?” Arthur asks, his brow furrowed.

“Greir. She, uh. Has a problem with me now, I guess?” Eames says awkwardly.

“Because of us?”

Eames’s mouth twists. “It’s a little bit more complicated. Do you want to go to my room and I’ll explain?”

Arthur shrugs. “Sure.”

Eames shivers inwardly at the concept of Arthur in his room. Sure, he has to explain some things first, but he plans on doing a little more there than he thinks Arthur is aware of. Not that he’s not aware... but Eames doesn’t think Arthur’s been with anybody else in his life. He might not know how much Eames wants right here and now.

The longer they walk, the more Eames speeds them up, and eventually they reach Eames’s door. He opens it, releasing Arthur’s hand to do so, and ushers him inside.

The lights are already slightly dimmed and that makes Eames swallow. Arthur doesn’t seem to think much of it. He sits on the bed, leaning his side against the headboard and leaving his feet slightly off the side, watching intently as Eames walks up and sits at the edge.

He thinks for a moment about how to start the conversation, and without much time for debate, decides to just come right out and say it.

“Before the Games, Greir and I... had a thing.”

Arthur frowns. “What do you mean?”

Eame grimaces. “I tried to kiss her once. She told me that it wasn’t a good idea, and that we’d see what happens after the Games, if I somehow happened to win.”

Arthur’s frown grows deeper, a thick V forming in between his eyes. “But... you like me?”

Eames leans forward, grasping one of Arthur’s hands in his own. “I love you, Arthur.”

“But she’s a girl... I thought you were gay, Eames,” Arthur says, kicking his feet entirely off the bed so that he can sit up and lean forward.

Eames shrugs. “I really just don’t have a preference between the two. But Arthur, just because I liked her before doesn’t mean that I don’t love you now. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Arthur closes his eyes. “But if you got over her so quickly, then how can I know that you won’t do the same with me?”

Eames licks his lips. “I didn’t love her, Arthur. I thought she was attractive, and that’s it. There was nothing to get over.”

Arthur’s frown fades a little. “I guess she didn’t feel the same way.”

Eames laughs. “I guess she didn’t. But now, just think about it. We can be together forever, safe and away from your family. We don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“And you’re not going to get bored of me,” he says, his eyes soft.

“Every part of you is so interesting, there’s nothing to be bored of. I love you so much. How many times do I have to tell you that before you believe me?”

“I never doubted you.”

Eames’s eyes crinkle. “Come here.”

Arthur edges forward, placing his hand on Eames’s bicep. Eames doesn’t hesitate as he pulls Arthur onto his lap, kissing his jaw. “You’re beautiful,” Eames admires, pressing his fingers into the back of Arthur’s neck. Arthur presses their lips together and licks into Eames’s mouth, clacking their teeth together.

Arthur pulls back softly, his lips seeming to glow in the lamplight. A light blush is dusting his cheeks, and Eames doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone more beautiful in his entire life.

“I haven’t felt this way about anyone before,” Arthur admits. “I feel if I’m separated from you then I’ll die. I know that sounds really stupid, but...”

Eames grins. “It’s not stupid. I completely understand,” he says, pausing to suck a mark onto the side of Arthur’s neck, “because I feel the same way.”

Arthur releases a shaky breath and then starts undoing the buttons of Eames’s suit and vest, and then the shirt underneath, taking all of these off to reveal his chest. He runs his fingers over it reverently and Eames has to suppress a smile. He pulls Arthur’s hands away so that he can return the favor, flinging them onto the ground.

“As much as I liked the way that suit looked on you, I’m very happy to have it off,” Eames whispers, gripping both sides of Arthur and pushing him backward so his head hits the pillow.

“Same to you,” Arthur chokes back, running his fingers into Eames’s hair and around his neck.

Eames leans down to kiss Arthur gently, slotting their bodies together. He struggles with his shoes and pushes one thigh in between Arthur’s legs. He hears Arthur gasp underneath him and presses in a little harder in response, rubbing against Arthur’s quickly hardening cock.

“Eames,” Arthur whispers against his lips, rubbing up against him. “What are you doing to me?”

Eames grins. “Whatever you want me to be doing to you.” He presses a kiss into Arthur’s neck and runs his fingers gently along Arthur’s side, sliding toward the middle of his stomach once he reaches his navel. He presses down and Arthur moans loudly.

“Oh, fuck, Eames,” he chokes out, pulling Eames down so his temple is pressed up against his own chin. “Oh, shit.”

Eames dips his fingers below Arthur’s waistband, rubbing his thumb teasingly into the light dusting of hair. He presses a kiss to the shell of Arthur’s ear as he shudders, stretching the skin of Eames’s back under his fingers. “More, Eames, please.”

Eames laughs and pulls back so he can properly strip Arthur of his pants. Once they’ve been discarded on the ground along with their jackets, Eames takes a minute to appreciate Arthur, cock resting against his belly, leaking precome. Then, he leans forward again and while sloppily kissing into his mouth, he takes Arthur’s cock in his hand and strokes up and down, quickly and then slowly, making Arthur whimper.

It doesn’t take more than a minute or two for Arthur to come all over his own stomach, crying out. “Eames, oh my god, Eames,” he says, tears leaking out of his eyes. Eames can barely contain himself as he rips off his own pants as quickly as he can and begins to stroke himself.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Arthur says, knocking Eames’s hand out of the way and getting his own on Eames’s cock. It’s clear he’s never done this before, so Eames says, “Just like you’d do yourself, yeah?” He’s not to blame if his voice is a little choked -- unfortunately, the sight of Arthur post-coital and determined to make Eames the same is even better than he could’ve ever imagined.

Arthur starts out going slowly, but he seems to gain some confidence as Eames lets out a few moans. “Fuck, Arthur, yes,” he says. He’d be ashamed of how quickly he comes after that if it wasn’t so clear just how proud Arthur was, how pervertedly happy he is to have made Eames come. Eames would be lying if he said he wasn’t in a similar state.

He falls on top of Arthur, panting into his neck. “Sorry,” he groans out, moving to get off immediately.

“No, no,” Arthur whispers, grabbing Eames’s back and pulling him back down. “Just stay. Please.”

“We’re going to be a mess,” Eames protests, but he doesn’t move.

They lay in relative silence, breathing heavily for a few minutes. Eames leans down to kiss Arthur, molding their lips together awkwardly with the angle. “Come on,” Eames says, pulling Arthur up as he sits. “We should get cleaned up.”

However, Arthur refuses to move. “I love you, Eames,” he mumbles, keeping his arms wrapped tightly around Eames’s back.

“I love you too, Arthur,” Eames responds, and presses a kiss to the top of Arthur’s head before closing his eyes and falling asleep.

======

Arthur wakes up to the sound of a tentative knock at the door.

He sits straight up, the action jerking Eames awake as well. “Arthur?” Eames asks blearily.

Before Arthur has a chance to respond, the door opens revealing an Avox girl holding an envelope in her hands. She startles when she sees the two of them, a flush of embarrassment taking over her cheeks, and only then does Arthur remember that they’re both naked and probably still smell like semen, seeing as they never cleaned themselves off.

She quickly leaves the envelope on a small table near the door and rushes out, slamming the door behind her.

Arthur only has a second to feel mortified before Eames starts laughing quietly behind him. Arthur turns to glare at him, but before he can stop himself, he’s laughing, too.

“Did you see her face?” Eames asks, once he’s calmed down. “Oh, God, she looked like she’d rather die than be here.”

“I’m sure my face looked like that too, honestly,” Arthur says, and Eames starts to laugh all over again. Arthur, in a moment of pure elation, can’t help but think that he’s never heard a more beautiful sound in his life.

Arthur cracks a grin, and Eames stops laughing suddenly, a weird look crossing his face which causes Arthur to frown.

“What?” Arthur asks.

“You have dimples,” Eames says, pressing his thumb lightly against Arthur’s cheek. “I don’t think I noticed that before.”

“Well,” Arthur says, a soft smile falling back into place. “Considering the majority of time we’ve known each other our lives were in danger, I think that’s to be expected.”

Eames laughs softly again. “Yeah, probably.” Arthur leans forward to kiss Eames softly, placing his hand on the back of Eames’s neck. Eames leans into it and kisses back for a few seconds before pulling back.

“Come on, love, let’s get cleaned up. Then we can deal with the papers.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Arthur says, getting off the bed and heading toward the bathroom. He hears Eames following him and can’t help smiling to himself. He doesn’t know how he got so lucky.

He says as much to Eames once he catches up with Arthur, and Eames just kisses Arthur very thoroughly. “I could say the same to you,” Eames says afterwards, breathless, and that -- the sight of a very naked and breathless Eames smiling at Arthur like he’s the only thing Eames needs -- that’s all Arthur thinks he’ll ever need.

And Arthur remembers the way he felt when his name was called at Reaping, how sure he was that it was the best thing that would ever happen to him, that all that would ever matter was winning the Hunger Games. But he’s won the Hunger Games, and that feeling has nothing on the way it feels when Eames runs his fingers through Arthur’s hair or kisses him like he’ll die if he has to wait one more second.

And it definitely has nothing on the way Arthur feels when Eames looks at him with a soft look in his eyes and tells Arthur that he loves him.

As Eames kisses him softly and guides him into the shower, Arthur can’t help but think that being able to spend the rest of his life with Eames is a better prize than all of their winnings combined. And when Eames smiles at him like he’s the most beautiful personal alive, Arthur’s sure that no matter what happens, as long as he has Eames, everything will be okay.

=== **EPILOGUE** ===

The train ride to District 2 makes Eames want to vomit.

Arthur is sitting next to him, his legs curled up and pressed against his chest with his arms wrapped around them. Eames has an arm around Arthur’s back and uses it to coax Arthur’s head down onto his shoulder.

“It will be over soon, darling,” Eames whispers, rubbing Arthur’s shoulder.

“I know, but ‘soon’ just isn’t soon enough.”

Eames smiles sadly. “It wouldn’t be soon enough if it had been yesterday.”

Arthur nods into his knees.

A server brings them tea, and Eames fixes Arthur’s just the way he likes it. He leaves his untouched, knowing that Arthur is probably going to want more.

He hands Arthur the mug, careful not to spill, and Arthur shakes his head. “It’s fine. I don’t want any.”

Eames laughs quietly. “You dirty liar. Take it, you’ll feel better.”

Arthur does so without another moment of contemplation, and despite its heat, finishes it within a few minutes of having received it.

Eames fixes him the other one, and before he knows it, the server is coming back in.

“The train will arrive in an hour. Start to get ready soon.”

Eames can hear Arthur swallow.

“Hey, it’s alright, yeah? We’re going to go get dressed, and take it one step at a time, okay?”

Arthur nods. “Yeah. Okay, I can do that.”

They stand, Eames supporting Arthur by the shoulders, and they walk into the carriage with their bed. Eames sits Arthur down on the edge of the mattress and walks around, gathering up the appropriate clothing. He lays them down next to Arthur and leans toward him, pressing their foreheads together.

Arthur blinks and then closes his eyes. “Thank you, Eames.”

Eames laughs softly. “What are you thanking me for, love?”

“For loving me... I guess. Helping me today. Yeah. I don’t know,” Arthur admits, letting out a heavy breath.

“I would be a terrible boyfriend if I didn’t do either of those things. That’s what we boyfriends do. We take care of the boys we love,” Eames says, kissing Arthur briefly.

Arthur smiles, still not opening his eyes. “I love you, too.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Eames gives him another kiss before detaching himself from Arthur and grabbing the clothes he needs. He starts pulling them on and Arthur lets himself fall back onto the bed dramatically. “You do need to get ready, though.”

“I know. I’m just not ready to get ready.”

Eames smiles a little, thinking to himself. He starts putting on his suit, wrapping the tie around his neck. He does it up quickly and Arthur blinks open his eyes.

“What are you smiling about?”

Eames shakes his head. “It’s just... When I first met you, you were kind of a dick. You acted like you were better than everybody else and pretended that you didn’t need anyone now... you’ve changed so much. I just can’t stop loving you now, so, so much. Not that I’d ever want to stop.”

If Eames didn’t know any better, he would say Arthur was tearing up. Arthur beckons him forward with a finger and Eames advances in between Arthur’s legs as he sits up. He pulls Eames forward by his tie and kisses him thoroughly, one hand still tugging him down and the other wrapped around the back of his head, threading fingers through his hair.

Eames laughs softly against Arthur’s neck. “Getting a little sappy, are we?”

“Hey, hypocrite, it’s not me who’s getting sappy,” he snaps back warmly. “And for the record, I was better than everyone else.”

Eames licks Arthur’s bottom lip and hums his assent against his mouth, placing his hands on Arthur’s hips and rocking them upward towards him.

“We so don’t have time for this,” Arthur comments, his voice already starting to attain the breathy quality it always has when he’s aroused. He still doesn’t let go.

“I know,” Eames replies, not wanting to let go of Arthur for anything.

After Arthur pushes Eames away so he doesn’t give him a hickey for the public to see (Eames has been very distraught over this for the past couple of weeks), he stands and gets dressed while Eames takes his seat, enjoying the view. When they’re both in the appropriate clothing, Eames takes Arthur into his arms and tries to make his hair less ridiculous, combing it through with his fingers.

A knock and a voice through the door tells them that they have about 10 minutes. Arthur sighs.

“I need a haircut,” he proclaims and Eames immediately shakes his head.

“Absolutely not. It’s so... cute like this.”

Arthur shoots him a deathly glare. “Did you just call me cute?”

“The little curls at the back are just so adorable. Please don’t cut it. You’ll be conforming to society!” Eames laughs, tugging him more tightly.

Arthur laughs with him. “Society where we live isn’t really something you can conform to.”

Eames gives him nudge. “Then keep it to make me happy.”

Arthur takes a deep breath. “You’re right. I have changed a lot.” He turns around so that he’s sitting in Eames’s lap instead, and cups Eames’s cheeks in his hands. “That fact that you’re not dead right now for calling me cute can attest to that.”

Eames cracks a smile. “Good to know I’m worth more than the satisfaction of having killed somebody.”

\--

“And now presenting... Arthur Adjoy and Eames Duri!”

Zenobia Duncain grins and presents them like somebody from a TV show, hand out. They stand some distance apart so they don’t touch, each bearing a slight smile and bowing repeatedly.

The crowd gives very few cheers and Eames wants to spit on them. He doesn’t know whether or not he should be angry that they’re cheering at all or because they’re not cheering because of Arthur’s sexuality.

Eames gives his speech, short and sweet about how honored he was to win, and how he’ll keep these memories with him for the rest of his life. The first part is total bullshit, but he knows that in ten, twenty, fifty years from now, he’ll still wake up from nightmares every so often of stabbing somebody in the throat or seeing Emira’s dead body.

And then Arthur walks up. The crowd goes dead silent and Eames can practically hear Arthur swallow.

“Mom and Dad. I know this is unexpected, but thank you. If you hadn’t pushed me so hard, made me give up education in favor of training, hadn’t been very forceful in getting what you wanted, then I never would have met Eames. This isn’t what you pushed me towards and I don’t care. I’m going to learn from your mistakes and never treat anybody the way you treated me. The way this district treated me. The honor of winning the Games is nothing compared to how it feels to be out of here, but one would have never come without the other. So thank you.”

He walks off the stage and Eames immediately follows, shell-shocked. The crowd stays silent. Zenobia thanks the audience and leaves as well, running to catch up to them.

She looks like she’s about to slap Arthur. “It’s a damn good thing your parents weren’t there anyway.”

Arthur gives a surprised smile. “Good to know they feel the same way.”

\--

Arthur locks himself in the bathroom for the entirety of the ride to District 3. Eames sits helplessly against the door and listen to Arthur’s retches and insistent whispers that he’s alright, he just needs a few minutes.

It’s not a long ride, and the fact that they had been living about 45 minutes away from each other for all of their lives stuns him. Finally, with about five minutes left, Arthur comes out with a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth.

“Are you alright?” Eames asks looking up at Arthur from where he’s seated on the floor.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, speaking around the toothbrush. He reaches over Eames onto the bed where he had discarded his tie and leaves the brush handing out of his mouth while he ties it properly. He stands above Eames, staring blankly out the window. Eames doesn’t move, not really knowing what to do.

Arthur eventually goes back into the bathroom and rinses his mouth of the toothpaste. Eames finally lifts himself up and reaches for Arthur’s waist, pressing his chest to Arthur’s back.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Eames asks, kissing the back of Arthur’s neck.

“No,” Arthur whispers.

“You’re done with them forever. You never have to see them or think about them ever again.”

“But that doesn’t mean that I won’t,” Arthur points out, sighing heavily.

“What ever happened that made every thought you have of them so terrible?”

Arthur blinks at Eames. “Are you serious?”

Eames frowns, feeling for unknown reasons. “Should I not be?”

“Have I really never mentioned it?”

“Mentioned what?”

Arthur swallows so heavily that Eames can hear it and Arthur blinks sadly. “I never told you that my parents beat me?”

Eames’s eyes widen. “I guess it never came up,” he chokes out, not daring to move.

Arthur gazes at him and Eames hesitates before pulling him forward, trying to convince himself that nothing has changed, that he’s still the same Arthur, that he doesn’t need to baby him any more than he did before.

Arthur turns into Eames’s embrace and they stand there, just breathing, until somebody comes to get them.

\--

“I didn’t really win these Games,” Eames starts, smiles gracing the crowd beneath him. “And I’m proud to say that. I didn’t want to win them either. So it’s a good thing that the only things I won were my life and happiness. Thank you, all of you, for being my family for so long. I hope that nobody who doesn’t deserve it gets picked, although no one truly deserves this at all. Live a life knowing that people you think are different may just be making their own decisions. Be happy no matter what happens. Thank you.”

Arthur turns to him as they bow one last time and walk off stage. “That was the gayest speech I’ve ever heard.”

“As it just so happens, I am as queer as a three dollar bill. Feeling better, are we?”

“Your speeches are uplifting. Truly. I couldn’t be happier... Unless we were back home,” Arthur says, undoing his tie again as they step back into the train.

“That can be arranged.”

“God, I hope so.”

\--

Their apartment is warm when they step inside, and that’s a huge relief from the freezing wind outside. Arthur strips off his gloves and his fingers are practically white. Eames makes a sympathetic noise and presses the fingers in between his own and rubs, heating them up.

Arthur thanks him by kissing him gently, curling his fingers around Eames’s big hands. Eames pulls away after just a moment and pushes Arthur lightly to the kitchen while he sheds his coat and scarf. He joins the other boy in the kitchen, filling a pot with water and setting it on the stove.

“Grilled cheese? Tuna?”

Arthur sinks into the chair at a kitchen table. “Hm. Grilled cheese sounds good.”

Eames smiles and gets all the supplies out from the cabinets. Arthur hums a song he’s been learning on the piano under his breath and Eames puts the kitchen speakers on and the song starts playing. Arthur blinks his thanks, but that’s not good enough for Eames. He puts the noodles in the water and then tugs Arthur from his chair and takes his hands, wrapping one around his waist and holding one up against Eames’s own in the air.

“Eames, please, no dancing...”

“Humor me, darling, please,” Eames begs. Arthur relents with a sigh, so they start waltzing around the kitchen to Debussy and Arthur really can’t argue anyway.

“We have to start work again tomorrow,” Arthur mutters as he leans his head against Eames’s shoulder.

“Let’s just murder them all,” Eames suggests, his voice still soft , “Just everyone in the entire Capitol. Nobody to bother us, just a wasteland of dead bodies to ourselves.”

“I guarantee that somebody will come along at some point to do it for us.”

“I get no satisfaction,” Eames mutters, but Arthur laughs.

“Maybe after dinner you will,” Arthur suggests with a smile, and Eames instantly breaks away to flip the grilled cheese. He pours the soup into a bowl and sets it down in front of a laughing Arthur who picks up a spoon and starts eating right away.

Eames quickly serves the sandwich and if it’s a little undercooked, then so be it. They each take a half and Eames jokingly scarfs his down while Arthur slowly chews and swallows, groaning as he takes a sip of the soup.

“If you’re not quick, then your dinner will get cold,” Eames growls, eyes fixed on Arthur’s lips.

“Cold, hm,” Arthur teases. “I could go for some ice cream.”

Eames sends him a threatening glare as the music changes to something a little less classical with banging drums and a loud guitar. “God, I hate your music,” Eames grunts and Arthur smiles.

“Insults will get you nowhere,” he whispers, and raises the soup bowl to his lips, sipping down the last of it. As soon as the bowl is back on the table, Eames is grabbing Arthur by the arm and tugging him to their bedroom, cold and dark from the recent snowfall. Arthur manages to flick on the light before Eames throws him onto the bed.

“This is hardly romantic,” Arthur gasps out as Eames leans down and presses a warm kiss to Arthur’s neck.

“I’m not a romantic person,” Eames murmurs.

“That’s such a lie,” Arthur laughs, hands running through Eames’s hair. “You’re a romantic through and through.”

Eames doesn’t respond, just moves down and strips Arthur of his shirt. Arthur groans when his kisses reach his navel, and Eames realizes that it’s been a really long time since they’ve had the opportunity to do this-- at least two weeks. He’s already over sensitive and his pants aren’t even halfway down his hips. Arthur has barely touched him yet. He misses this, because so many people get to see the sweet side of Arthur, what with him working at a health clinic and all, but nobody else has ever seen this part of him. Eames is extremely grateful for that.

He pulls down Arthur’s pants the rest of the way and presses a kiss to the cloth covering his cock, and then wastes no more time in stripping him completely and taking Arthur into his mouth. Arthur groans and grips Eames’s hair painfully, but Eames doesn’t mind. He suckles around the head of Arthur’s cock for a few seconds before Arthur pushes him down further, a demand which Eames is happy to fulfill.

“Hey,” Arthur gasps, and Eames looks up, his lips swollen. Arthur takes a second to stare at him hungrily before continuing. “Come up here.”

Eames licks his lips greedily and gives one more swipe of his tongue up Arthur’s cock before crawling forward, using Arthur’s arms as leverage and effectively pinning him to the bed. He hovers just far enough away that Arthur cannot kiss him without a struggle, so Arthur just tips his head up, waiting.

“You’re being difficult,” Arthur complains, wrapping a naked leg around Eames’s clothed one. “Stop that.”

Eames grins, teeth bared, and leans down quickly to nip Arthur on the nose. Arthur yelps in surprise and scowls, using the leg wrapped around Eames as leverage to pull him down completely and return the nip in the crook between his neck and his shoulder. Eames shakes his head.

“Alright, alright,” Eames whispers, and lifts his head to kiss Arthur gently, grinding their hips together, setting a rhythm that Arthur finds and quickly follows.

Eames sighs into their kiss and smiles happily, releasing Arthur’s arms to shuck off the rest of his clothing and leave it discarded on the floor. He licks excitedly into Arthur’s mouth and Arthur returns to excitement in the form of rutting up into him.

“Just fuck me,” he begs and Eames grins.

“Nothing new? No foreplay? How boring you are,” Eames says with a smirk and Arthur imitates a growl.

“Tell me I’m boring when you’re actually fucking me,” he commands this time, shoving a hand between them to grip Eames’s cock and squeeze.

“Fine, fine,” he says as if it’s a hardship, giving away his facade by licking both his lips and Arthur’s by closeness.

He grabs the lube from the bedside table, neatly tucked into the drawer where they knew they’d need it. He squirts some onto his palm, knows that they like they friction, a lot of friction, and that the wetness will take away from that. He applies it to himself and positions himself so that his cock is lined up between Arthur’s legs, and Arthur groans.

“I’m ready, I’m ready,” he moans and Eames thrusts in, wasting no time. He starts a fast and hard rhythm and Arthur meets him on every push, breathing harshly into Eames’s mouth, trying to kiss him properly, not quite managing it with the way that Eames never stops moving. Arthur’s so, so tight, and Eames grins.

“Boring you yet?” Arthur gasps, grasping onto Eames’s forearms tightly, digging in his nails.

“Never, love,” Eames gasps right back, showing him his teeth before leaning down to bite his neck gently, fastening his mouth onto one spot, sucking. The pressure builds up in his groin and Arthur grunts.

“Faster,” he says, short of breath. Eames is only happy to comply, thrusting even quicker, feeling Arthur clench around him.

It’s been long enough that Arthur only needs another minute before he’s coming on their stomachs, dragging his fingers down Eames’s arms. This only spurs Eames on, giving a last few thrusts before he’s coming too, into Arthur, which is easily the best thing he’s ever felt. Deciding not to use condoms had been the best idea.

He rides out the last few waves of pleasure and then collapses, falling to the side of Arthur, gathering him up in his arms gently.

“Get off me,” Arthur says breathlessly, pushing him away.

“Oh, you love it,” Eames laughs, gripping harder. Arthur relaxes, giving in.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Continuation of trigger warnings: Suicide attempt, (partially graphic) violence, and homophobia, so don't read if you're triggered by any of these things.  
> If you're interested, the absolutely ridiculous original outline for this fic: https://docs.google.com/document/d/11Z_vyUzZP_Q5vbY15LN9XqbqEatr9g4hNt-XtSRew_Q/edit


End file.
